


Simple Man

by Straight_Outta_Hobbiton



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy accidentally becomes a farmer, Billy becomes something of a big deal in the Farmer's Market Circuit, Billy finds peace through becoming self-sufficient, Billy hunts rabbits, Billy makes a lot of Polish Food, Billy makes jam, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-18 03:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 24,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13091565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton/pseuds/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton
Summary: There’s an abandoned cottage in the woods, and a bruised to hell Billy Hargrove finds it in the middle of a snowy night in early March. This turns into a bigger deal than it probably ought to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So! I've been posting about this stupid idea, and now it's here: the Chicken Fic. Please, hold your applause.

 

Billy can tell no one lives in the cottage based on the amount of rust and debris that’s visible under the soft blanket of snow that covers the tin roof. Or, he would, if the world wasn’t going fuzzy at the edges.

 

Shit. His dad got him good, this time.

 

The door is closed, but not locked, which means animals haven’t gotten in (probably) but Billy can, which he does, shuddering at the change from cold wind to just cold. It’s dark as shit, and Billy’s hands are clumsy when they fumble for his lighter.

 

The place is deserted, and has been for a long time, if the cobwebs are anything to go by. What furniture’s left is covered with plane white sheets, like maybe the owner had been planning on coming back one day, covering what looks like a table and chairs in one corner and a bed in the other. A handful of candles soft with dust are piled neatly on what might be a sheet-covered stove, along with an equally unused candelabra.

 

Hands shaking with cold, Billy picks up the candles and fills the candelabra, hissing as the flame of his lighter licks against his nail when he leans in to light the wicks.

 

Suddenly, there’s light, enough of it that Billy can put away the lighter and have a proper look around.

 

… When he was told they were moving to Indiana, this was more what he was thinking, rather than the cookie-cutter suburban homes he ended up getting. The entire cottage is one room, with what looks like might be a door into a root cellar near the far wall, a small dresser and a pile of bone-dry and probably-a-little-bit-rotten wood in the space between the kitchen table and the stove.

 

But, like he said, there’s a bed, which right now is all he needs. Well, that and warmth. But he’ll bet anything that the stove behind him is wood-burning, because of course it is.

 

Setting the candelabra aside on the table, he pulls away the sheet and bingo. Wood-burning.

 

Billy knows how to set a fire. He learned when he was a kid, before his mom died and his dad soured and everything fell to shit. He’s got a handful of crumpled napkins in his jacket pocket from lunch, a lighter, and a pile of wood. He’s good, he can do this.

 

Twenty minutes later, there’s a fire just starting to warm the metal of the stove, and provided that the windows aren’t totally fucked, the entire cottage should follow suit, too.

 

Nodding sharply to himself, Billy straightens and turns to the bed, tugging off the sheet and tossing it to the floor to join its brother from the stove. There’s a mattress, which is cool, and the metal frame— while creaky as hell— holds his weight when he carefully sits down on the edge.

 

There have got to be sheets or something somewhere in this little cottage, right?

 

There are, along with a handful of ancient-looking quilts that’ll serve just fine. He checks under the bed for any critters— of which there are none, thank God— before setting to work on the bed, setting one folded quilt at the head of the bed to serve as a pillow and tossing the other over the rest. This is good. Way better than freezing to death in the snow.

 

Billy’s proud of himself when he settles himself into the mattress of that old bed. Really fucking proud. Of course, that might be the cold and blood loss talking.

 

Well, whatever. He’s asleep in a moment, either way.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Billy wakes up with a face full of sunshine and no recollection of where the fuck he is. The gray wood of the walls, the unfamiliar furniture in the unfamiliar room— it has him suddenly remembering an old movie about rapey hillbillies, and the jolt of adrenaline he gets at the thought is enough to wake him all the way.

 

Then, he remembers. Right, fighting with dad, stumbling into the woods because he was an _ idiot  _ who forgot he had a _ car, _ finding a weird little house in the woods that nobody seemed to be using, deciding it was a good idea to sleep in it. He remembers now.

 

Pushing himself up with a groan, he looks around properly, noting that it isn’t quite so warm as it ought to be before rolling out of the little bed to put more wood in the stove, reaching for a poker he hadn’t seen the night before and giving the embers an encouraging nod before closing the grate and straightening.

 

He’s lucky it’s Saturday. He’s lucky it’s normal for him to be gone on the weekends, that he isn’t expected to be home for anything until Sunday night. He’s lucky that he still has his car keys in his pocket and a wad of cash stuffed in his crotch. He should be fine for the weekend, once he gets his car.

 

Well, in order to do that, he’ll have to wait until his dad leave the house for bowling night with his coworkers, which isn’t until five. So, Billy supposes he has some time to kill. Maybe he can have a look around, maybe figure out if he can even get back to the main road.

 

Picking up his coat from the floor beside the bed— he must have woken up and pulled it off sometime in the night— he shrugs it on and opens the door, stepping out onto the little porch to look out onto the stretch of field and forest in front of him. It’s weirdly peaceful, how silent the world is, all covered in clean white snow that shines under the weak sun.

 

The cottage is more of a shack, Billy realizes when he finally gets a good look at the building he’d spent the night in. Kinda cute, in the way that old, squat little houses are, and in pretty good shape, considering the age it shows in its chipped white paint and its rusty roof.

 

There’s an outhouse on one side of the shack, and a on the other there’s a water pump, something that might be a shed, and what Billy thinks might be a smokehouse. So the place has what can be considered a working bathroom and water.

 

That’s enough for Billy.

 

The outhouse doesn’t smell nearly as bad as he expected it to— it mostly smells of dirt and cold when he makes use of it. This place has been out of commission for a damn long time, it seems.

 

By the time he wanders back into the shack, the stove has done its job and it’s warm again, warm enough that Billy can peel his jacket off and throw it over a newly uncovered kitchen chair.

 

Since he’s here, he may as well check out the root cellar, right? After all, he has time to kill.

  
  


*.*

  
  


The root cellar, as it turns out, is far bigger than the actual building it belongs to, stretching another thirty feet back before slanting upwards towards another small cellar door, one that opens up into the woods. Or, Billy thinks it does. He isn’t sure, exactly, because when he tries to push open the door all he finds is heavy snow and probably fifty years of dead leaves and sticks pushing back against him.

 

Okay, whatever. It’s not that big a deal— there’s a bunch of shelves lining the walls, Billy can have a look at that.

 

There are a lot of jars, mostly of stuff that is definitely long expired. Pickles, peppers, and eggs float sluggishly in foggy water, black and molded and decidedly disgusting-looking. The jams and preserves— of which there are many— look equally expired, but they’re all labeled with things that sound delicious, like strawberry and peach and blueberry. Cautiously, Billy picks up one of the jars, rubbing his thumb over the faded sticker so he can get a better look at the sharp, slanted cursive.

 

_ Cinnamon Apple, 1946. _

 

Yeah. This house hasn’t been used in a very long time.

 

There’s other stuff too, of course. There’s a box of loose tea leaves on one shelf, a tin of sugar on another, a shelf stuffed full of what look like journals above a shelf of proper books, a whole box of candles and even a handful of oil lamps— no oil, but hey, the lamps are something.

 

There’s a handful of boxes piled against the stairs leading up into the cottage full of clothes, kitchenware, and a small photo album. He inspects each pot, pan, skillet, and tin mug for rust and damage (not much, which is kind of interesting) before setting them aside, opening and then closing a box of beautiful silver cutlery before picking up the photo album.

 

The photos are from the war— well, World War II. A man— the focus of most of the photos— stands tall and proud, smiling at the camera with a cigar between his teeth. He’s wearing a bomber jacket, a real bomber jacket, monogrammed with the name _ Bill  _ across the left breast. He seems like he’s a handsome, charismatic guy, because there isn’t one photo that doesn’t seem like he hasn’t just heard a good joke.

 

Billy sets the album aside and starts to dig into the clothes. He guesses he knows who lived in this little shack last, now.

 

White shirts and dress pants stained with hard work and dirt is mostly what he finds, crumbling and moth-eaten at the edges and basically unwearable. Billy tosses them to the side. Not worth much more than rags, at this point.

 

Then— then he finds the jacket. The leather bomber jacket from the photos.

 

The leather held up pretty well, considering. It smells a little musty when Billy holds it up to the candlelight, a color faded in some places and stitched in other, but it looks alright, all in all. Especially the back.

 

Why is the back important? Well, see, when Billy flips it over, he doesn’t find the plain dark brown he’d been expecting, but rather a faded image painted onto the back.

 

_ Sweet Dreams, Boys! _ A red-haired woman in a bomber jacket and not much else proclaims from her seat on a bomb, red-heeled feet kicked up in the air. She’s surrounded by plain white bombs that might have been stamped on— thirty-six of them.

 

A kill count, Billy realizes after a moment. Cool.

 

Straightening, he shrugs the jacket onto his shoulders. It’s a little loose in the shoulders, but otherwise it seems to fit him fine, and even better, it’s _ warm.  _ Warmer than the jacket he has now, at least.

 

He keeps digging, and finds more uniforms, or parts of them, anyway, stiff with old starch and age. There are some really interesting things tucked down here, he realizes after a moment. Stuff that could be worth a lot of money, if he found the right person. That’s something to keep in mind.

 

Pushing himself back to his feet, he dusts off his knees and tosses the clothes back into the crates. He should probably start heading back soon. Lord only knows how long it’ll take for him to pick his way through the woods and find the road.

 

Billy pauses, eyes finding the teabox and the little tin of sugar.

 

… Tea doesn’t go bad, does it? He thinks he might need something in his stomach, just until he gets his car and buy a real breakfast.

 

He sighs and grabs the sugar, the tea, the kettle, and one of those little tin mugs. There’s enough snow on the ground that he can boil some water and clean everything out, right? It’s not like he’s short of possible dish rags.

 

Yeah. He’ll clean the kettle and the mug, he’ll make himself some tea, and then he’ll head back. That’ll work just fine.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Billy doesn’t think much about that cottage again the following week, not until Max’s stupid game runs late and he ends up bringing her back after curfew. The gets him a punch to the jaw and a few kicks to the ribs, and Billy barely has the time to grab his keys before his father throws him out the front door and into the snow.

 

Billy doesn’t have anywhere to go, no girlfriend, no friends, nobody. So he drives, eventually coming to the little gap in the trees on the edge of the neighborhood that at one time served as the road to the cottage. The snow’s too thick to even attempt to drive up the incline, so Billy is forced to make a choice— stay in the car, or make the trek up to the easily-heated cabin.

 

Sighing, he turns off the engine and pops the trunk to get his schoolbag and the blanket he keeps in the back for emergencies. His dad didn’t let him grab his jacket, so that’ll have to do until he gets to where he wants to be.

 

The walk is fucking horrific. Billy’s fingers go blue where he clutches at the blanket to hold it shut, and his face goes numb as the wind whips between the trees. It's supposed to be March. This sucks, this sucks, this  _ fucking  _ sucks.

 

The silhouette of the of the cottage comes into view just as Billy thinks that maybe this wasn’t such a great idea, and he’s never run so fast in his life in an effort to get inside.

 

It’s still cold, but there’s no wind, and the candelabra is right where he left it, so he isn’t completely fucking blind when he finally gets enough feeling in his fingers to light the stove without burning himself.

 

He stays on the floor in front of the stove for a few minutes, sighing quietly to himself as he tries to warm up his hands. He doesn’t think he has frostbite, but who the hell knows? He’s never actually had a winter under sixty degrees before.

 

Once he can think properly again, Billy pulls off his shoes and strips his wet socks, hanging them on the small railing of the stove to dry. His boots are soaked through, which sucks, and he’s not entirely sure they’ll be dry enough to wear by morning, but he sets them by the stove too, just in case.

 

His jeans are wet to the knees, thanks to all the fucking snow. He doesn’t like the idea of sleeping without bottoms on though. He went commando today (like a fucking idiot), and while he doesn’t care _ too  _ much about how the sheets smell like dust and age, there’s something a little bit skeevy about his dick touching them.

 

Frowning, he pulls his schoolbag across the floor and pulls open the zipper. He’d meant to wash his gym clothes this weekend, but his usual stash of extra clothes are still in the trunk of his car, and fuck him if he’s going to make that walk again tonight. Funky as they may smell, the shorts will have to do.

 

Sighing, Billy hangs his jeans over the railing and pulls on the shorts before crawling into the bed. He’s too fucking tired, man.

 

His life sucks.

  
  


*.*

  
  


The second time he wakes up in the cottage, he’s not quite so freaked out. In fact, he feels sort of okay, warm and comfortable despite the spring sticking into his back.

 

There are no parties planned for this weekend, he knows, and Billy’s got nothing lined up in terms of girls, so he supposes he may as well spend his day here, maybe even tomorrow, too. All he needs is some food and he’s golden.

 

… Except, getting food means he has to walk down to his car. Fuck, Billy doesn’t wanna do that.

 

Honestly, he could probably shovel out enough of the snow to get his car up the hill, if he really wanted to. All he needs is a shovel. Maybe there’s a shovel around here somewhere— maybe the shed.

 

Plan already forming in his mind, Billy pushes himself to his feet to stoke the fire and make himself some tea. He needs something warm in his stomach if he’s going to try this shit.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Shoveling snow is about as boring and tiring as Billy thought it would be, and after two hours of work, he only barely has a path from the house, a reasonably-sized parking spot, and maybe a six-by-six patch of road finished.

 

Grumbling to himself about stupid fucking snow and shitty fucking shovels— it’s completely the wrong shape for this kind of work, which is making it  _ twice  _ as hard— he stabs the shovel into the snow and lights a cigarette.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Billy startles, whirling around to see—a girl. A kid, dressed in a black coat far too big for her and snow boots, a hat jammed onto a mop of curly hair. She stares at him curiously, head tilted slightly to one side.

 

“What’s it look like?” he grunts around his cigarette. “Shoveling.”

 

“Why?”

 

Billy rolls his eyes, ignoring the way the girl’s mouth pulls into an unhappy frown.

 

“My car,” he says slowly. “Is at the bottom of the hill. I want it up here.” He points for effect. “Since my car can’t handle the snow, I’ve gotta shovel.”

 

The girl makes a face at him.

 

“Not very good at it,” she informs him, which, thanks, kid.

 

“Hey, sweetheart?” he asks. “Do me a favor and run back to your mommy, will ya?”

 

“Momma’s far away,” the girl informs him. “Sick.”

 

Billy makes a face.

 

“Well, run home to your daddy, then,” he says, turning away and grabbing his shovel once more.

 

“At work,” she says. “Want help?”

 

“No.”

 

“Liar,” the girl says decisively. “Be back.”

 

Billy turns back just in time to see the girl disappear back into the trees, snow crunching under her shoes.

 

What the actual fuck?

  
  


*.*

  
  


The girl comes back about half an hour later, a backpack thrown over her shoulder and two snow shovels in either hand. Billy hasn’t made much progress, clearing out another two or three feet of snow.

 

“Here,” she says, holding out the bigger shovel for Billy to take. “Better.”

 

“Seriously?” he asks, looking at the girl. She gives him a serious nod.

 

“Help,” she says, like that’s a normal thing to do for a surly stranger.

 

“... Okay?”

 

The girl nods, stabbing the other shovel into the snow and wandering up the path to set her backpack on the porch.

 

“When we’re done, Eggos,” she says. “Brought some.”

 

Billy blinks at her, then looks at the backpack sitting on the porch.

 

“I hate to break it to ya, kid, but I don’t exactly have a toaster,” he says.

 

“Okay,” she says. “Good fried, too. Got butter.”

 

Billy snorts.

 

“What are you, a scout, or something? You’re awful prepared.”

 

The girl shakes her head.

 

“Just know things,” she says. Then, as though that’s not something weird to say, she grabs her shovel and gets to work.

 

A moment later, Billy decides he’s not going to fight her. He takes the shovel she handed him and starts scooping up snow.

  
  


*.*

  
  


There’s not much sun or snow left when Billy’s stomach demands they stop, but he’s kind of annoyed that he didn’t finish before it got too dark to see.

 

The girl seems to know when Billy decides it’s over, straightening to peer at him from under her bangs.

 

“Eggos now,” she says.

 

“Yeah, okay.”

 

They troop back up the hill towards the cottage, setting their shovels beside the door before slipping into the still-mostly warm house.

 

“I’ve gotta wash a pan first,” he says as she shuts the door behind them, already tossing more wood on the fire. “Go to the shed and grab some more wood, will you?”

 

The girl nods and sets her backpack on the table, already moving to head back outside. Billy thinks she might be a little slow— she looks about Max’s age, but he’d remember a little girl like her if she was going to Hawkins Middle School. There’s something about her that’s just… odd.

 

Well, whatever. Not his problem.

 

Billy comes back upstairs wielding a skillet the size of his head to find the girl already back inside and the big pot on the stove, the one he’d used to heat up water to clean the kettle the last time he’d been here (and to make tea, because halfway through his cleaning he realized he was being fucking stupid). Beside the stove is a pile of wood that’s much bigger than he was expecting. Did she make two trips? He’d only been in the cellar for twenty minutes, tops.

 

“Right. Okay.” He looks between the pot and the girl. “Do you want… tea, I guess. It’s all I’ve got.”

 

“Okay,” the girl says, hopping up from her chair at the kitchen table and snagging the kettle from its hook by the stove. “Be back, Bill.”

 

How the fuck— oh. The monogram on the jacket. He’d put on the bomber he’d found in the cellar this morning in lieu of his own jacket. It’s actually pretty warm.

 

Billy runs a hand through his hair— it’s a mess, he’s sure, still mussed from sleep— and sets about finding the rag he’d used last time he got it in his head to clean. He’s hungry, and he’s cold, and goddamn it, there’s actually a box of Eggos sitting on the kitchen table, along with a stick of butter and a little bottle of maple syrup. 

 

He’ll deal with a weird little kid if it means he gets to eat something.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I'm posting today, but I probably won't have time tomorrow or Monday, because of Christmas and family and midnight mass (woop, Polish Catholics), so I probably won't be posting again 'til Tuesday or Wednesday. With that in mind, Merry Christmas to the people who do that sort of thing, and I hope the rest of you get the day off to sleep in.

The girl is called Jane, he finds out once they’ve eaten and washed the skillet and their plates. Jane, apparently, is a very smart girl, because she also brought dish soap, though she won’t give a straight answer as to why.

 

She also brought a radio, which Billy appreciates enough to let her stick around for a little while longer.

 

Eventually, though, she gets up.

 

“Ji— dad’s coming home,” she says sadly, as though she’s been enjoying Billy’s silent company at the table. “Gotta be home before him.”

 

Billy gets that.

 

“Alright,” he says, reaching for the radio and holding it out. “Thanks for the help, I guess. And the Eggos.”

 

Jane nods, but doesn’t take the radio.

 

“Keep it,” she says. “Got one at home.”

 

And that… that’s a hell of a thing for a kid to say. Even a little radio like this can be expensive, when you’re a kid.

 

“No, it’s yours,” Billy says. “You’re dad’ll ask about it.”

 

“I gave it to a friend,” Jane says, shrugging. “He won’t mind.”

 

Friend? Is that what she’s decided? God, this kid’s weird.

 

“Still,” he says. “It’s better—”

 

“No,” Jane says firmly. “Radio’s for Bill. You’ll get bored.”

 

And that… that’s the worst thing that can happen to Billy. He might actually lose it.

 

“You’ll take it back when I bring mine up, then,” Billy says. “I’ll just borrow it, for now.”

 

Jane stares at him for a moment.

 

“Compromise,” she agrees. “You’ll be here tomorrow?”

 

“... Probably.” He’s gotta finish shoveling, after all.

 

“Okay. I’ll visit.” Jane smiles at him, cheeks dimpling. “See you tomorrow.”

 

And just like that, she’s gone, door creaking shut behind her as she goes.

 

Billy doesn’t know what to do with that.

  
  


*.*

  
  


When Billy gets up in the morning, he makes himself the rest of Jane’s left-behind box of Eggos to go with his tea and then sets about heading down the hill to finish shoveling.

 

… Except, there’s nothing left to shovel.

 

How—? Jane, Billy realizes, chest tightening oddly. It must have been her. No one else knows he’s up here, no one else—

 

How the fuck did she manage to finish? The shovels— both of them— were still leaning against the wall next to the door when he’d come out, so what? She shoveled, walked back up the hill to leave her shovel, then went home? When did she do that? At night? Didn’t she say she needed to be home before her dad got back?

 

Billy might actually just be a pussy, if a kid managed to finish the job he couldn’t. Fuck, he needs to up his game.

 

His car’s where he left it when he goes to get it, of course. Everybody knows his car, and everybody knows him. You’d have to be an idiot to fuck with it.

 

He makes a quick trip to the store to get cigarettes and a handful of necessities (pasta, tomato gravy, soda, toilet paper) before braving the hill. He goes slow, because even if the snow’s gone it’s still slippery, and Billy really can’t afford to fucking crash into a tree now.

 

When he pulls up, Jane’s there, seated on the edge of the porch as he steers the Camaro into the spot he’d created and looking astonished. That makes him grin, just a little bit, as he turns off the engine and steps out of the car.

 

Jane pushes herself to her feet and runs up to him, slowing as she gets closer to the car.

 

“Bitchin’,” she breathes, eyes wide as they dart between the car and Billy.

 

He can’t help it; he laughs, leaning back against door.

 

“This is my baby,” he tells her, patting the roof gently. “Got her for a steal back in Cali and fixed her up. Pretty, ain’t she?”

 

“Beautiful,” Jane agrees. “Baby.” She reaches out to touch the car, patting the hood carefully with a gloved hand.

 

Billy has to admit, the kid’s got manners.

 

“Let’s go inside,” he says, pushing off the car to pat her on the shoulder. “I can make food.”

 

“Eggos?”

 

“Better,” he tells her. “Spaghetti.”

 

“Spaghetti?”

 

Shit, does this kid live under a rock or something?

 

“It’s more like dinner food than Eggos,” he says. “You’ll like it. Everybody likes spaghetti, and it’s easy as shit to make.”

 

Jane doesn’t seem convinced, but she falls into step behind him nonetheless, so he supposes she’s willing to try it. And hey, if she doesn’t like it? More for Billy.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Today in her backpack she’s got a notebook, pencils, and a handful of thin picture books that Billy raises his eyebrows at.

 

“You’re what, fourteen?” he says, looking between her and the books she’s laid out on the table. “Why the hell are you reading…” he pauses to read one of the titles. “Saint George and the Dragon?”

 

Jane looks down at her hands.

 

“Place I was before,” she says. “Didn’t think I needed to read.”

 

Billy’s brow furrows.

 

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Used to be with bad men,” Jane says, peering up at him carefully. “People who hurt me. Papa didn’t teach me.” She looks away again. “Better now. Got— dad.”

 

Billy’s quiet for a moment. So she’s… a foster kid, probably. Maybe adopted. And wherever she’d been before hadn’t been good, but then, it never is.

 

“That sucks,” he says, because what else do you say to something like that? “So, you’re learning to read now?”

 

Jane nods.

 

“And write,” she adds. “Writing’s better. Just copying letters.”

 

Billy nods.

 

“You’re not in school yet, I gather,” he says. “Since you’re behind.”

 

“I’ll catch up,” Jane says firmly. “Getting better every day. Practicing.”

 

“That’s good,” he says. “Practice makes perfect, from what I hear.”

 

She hums in agreement, giving him a little smile before turning back to her notebook.

 

Well, Billy has homework to do. He may as well do it now.

 

Grabbing his backpack, he pulls out his books, taking the seat across from her and setting them down on the table. He figures he’ll do his math shit, first, because math fucking sucks and the quicker it’s done, the better.

 

They stay like that until it gets dark, until the sun sets low enough that Billy needs to light a few candles so he can finish his essay for English. Then, Jane packs up her things and wave him goodbye.

 

“I’ve got school tomorrow,” he tells her. “I won’t be around.”

 

“Weekend?” she asks, and Billy sighs.

 

“I don’t know, kid. We’ll see.”

 

“Okay. Bye, Bill.”

 

“See ya around, Jane.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New fic chapter, woot!
> 
> I know a lot of people who are reading this are also reading my other fic about Max's mom getting killed, but for those of you who aren't— I'm squeeing over a Christmas haul of a record player and records. It's great. I'm so fucking excited, seriously.

 

Billy finds himself going back to the cottage by Tuesday, this time with a split lip and a black eye. He can’t go to school looking like this, and he can’t be sticking around his dad’s house, either, so he does neither. Instead, he waits for the rest of the house to fall asleep, packs a few days worth of clothes and his shitty boombox, and shrugs on his jacket.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

Billy freezes with his hand on the doorknob, glancing over his shoulder to find Max standing there in her cloud-patterned pajamas and barefoot on the ugly brown carpet. Today was a bit exciting for her, he supposes. She’d never actually seen Neil go after him before.

 

His mouth twists.

 

“Out,” he grunts. “I’ll be by to pick you up for school tomorrow.”

 

The furrow between her brows deepens.

 

“You’re not leaving?” she asks. 

 

He scoffs.

 

“If I could leave, I woulda left the first time that fucker swung at me,” he mutters, half-regretting the word even as it slips past his teeth. If Neil hears him…

 

“This wasn’t the first time?”

 

“Nah,” Billy says. “Won’t be the last, either.”

 

Max’s jaw works, like she wants to say something but can’t decide what.

 

“That’s messed up,” she settles on, and Billy gives her a humorless smile.

 

“Be careful,” he says. “You might be next.” He knows Susan gets it too, sometimes, though Neil’s more careful to make sure her bruises can’t be seen. Billy has a reputation for fighting. Susan decidedly does not.

 

He leaves Max there, quietly opening the door and slipping outside before closing it behind himself, moving almost silently across the lawn and slipping behind the wheel. The engine growls when he turns it on, making him wince, but he figures his father won’t care that he’s left provided he’s there bright and early tomorrow morning to get Max.

 

He’ll drop her off at school, then he’ll go hide for a little while in the cottage. Then he’ll pick her up, he’ll drop her off, and he’ll go back.

 

… Maybe he should stop by the supermarket at some point, too.

  
  


*.*

  
  


It’s a lot easier, now that he can drive up to the cottage itself rather than walk that three-quarters of a mile uphill, especially considering Billy’s got a backseat full of non-perishables, batteries and a shit ton of cleaning supplies. He figures he’ll stick it out for the rest of the week, then head back to his dad’s. Hopefully he’ll have cooled down by then.

 

If not, well, Billy’s preparing for the eventuality.

 

He spends the day clearing out the root cellar, carrying crate after crate of rotten jams and moldy pickles upstairs to be dumped and wiping downs the dusty shelves with a rag and bleach before replacing the jars with boxes of supermarket brand pasta, tomato sauce, tuna cans, Campbell’s Soup, and batteries. He brings the plates, the cutlery, and the oversized washbucket upstairs, all to be scrubbed with a wire brush and hot water, along with the newly-emptied jars. He takes out his boombox and sets it on the dresser upstairs along with a handful of cassettes, pulling out each drawer to scrub clean of dust and cobwebs before setting outside to dry.

 

He cleans everything, from the floors to the dusty iron bed to the rickety kitchen table, and when he’s done, he takes one of the newly-washed tin mugs he’d set on the shelf above the kitchen table and makes himself a cup of tea, because goddammit, he deserves it.

 

The whole house cottage smells like bleach and burning wood, but there’s Deep Purple filtering out of the cheap speakers of his radio and a sense of accomplishment thrumming through Billy’s fingers as he relaxes for the first time all day. He’s got an hour before he picks up Max, and for once, he doesn’t feel like he’s going to explode when he stops moving.

 

It’s a nice feeling.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Max stares at him the whole ride home.

 

“You smell like bleach,” she says, nose wrinkling. “And dust.”

 

Billy arches an eyebrow.

 

“Yeah?” he says. “And?”

 

“Why?”

 

Billy shrugs.

 

“The place I’m staying is kinda gross,” he says. “I fixed it. Sorta.”

 

“Where are you staying?” Max asks. “At a girl’s?”

 

His lip curls.

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

 

Max scoffs.

 

“Fine,” she says. “Whatever, I don’t care.”

 

But she does, for some reason. Billy can see it in the way she keeps looking over at him, mouth pinched into an unhappy line. Billy doesn’t get it. She doesn’t even like him.

 

She slams the car door when they pull up to the house, and Billy barely waits for her to get on the sidewalk before he peels away again, desperate to get away, get away, _get away._

 

That calm he’d found, when he was cleaning the cottage? It’s fucking gone now.

 

He buys a pound of ground beef on his way back, because he’s got fucking Hamburger Helper so he may as well get something to make it with, and when he slams back into the house, he finds himself suddenly full of reckless, angry energy.

 

He wants to break something. He wants to hit someone. He wants to get fucked up.

 

He can’t do any of those things.

 

The now-empty but still grody jars are piled on the table where he left them, and the washbucket is still on the floor at the floor of the bed. Growling to himself, he grabs his (new) scrub brush and the dish soap and piles the jars into the bucket, then takes the pot outside to collect some snow.

 

Those jars are going to be damn spotless when he finishes.

  
  


*.*

  
  


After making himself dinner and washing the dishes, Billy finds himself with nothing to do, and that’s the worst thing that can happen.

 

There are books in the cellar. Old, musty books that probably have those weird funguses that get nerds high growing in the bindings. Unfortunately, Billy is bored, so he’s willing to brave it if it means not getting stuck with only his thoughts for the next few hours. He doesn’t even really look at his options, just grabs the first book his fingers find in the candlelight and stuffing it under his arm. It’s not until he’s upstairs and tucked under the old quilts— maybe he should bring better blankets, or newer ones, at least— does he actually look at what he’s picked up.

 

Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen. A _girl_ book.

 

Sighing to himself, Billy sets the candelabra on the wide windowsill and cracks open the tattered binding. Better than nothing, he supposes, and anyway, it’s not like anyone’s going to see him reading it.

 

Settling himself more comfortably against his makeshift pillow, his eyes find the beginning of the first paragraph.

 

_ It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. _

  
Billy sighs harder. Fuck, it’s one of _ those  _ books.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!

Elizabeth Bennett is officially the sort of person that Billy wants to spend the rest of his life with. Smart, smart _-mouthed,_ and a taker of no bullshit. The way she smacked down Darcy? Fucking _gold._ Seriously, if he could find a girl like that, he’d never let her go.

 

He needs a _challenge , _and someone like Lizzie Bennett would do quite nicely.

 

He finishes the book that night, finally acquiescing to sleep and dangerously short candle stubs. He’s going to have to clean the windowsill in the morning, probably, thanks to all the dried wax, but for now, Billy’s just going to sleep. Yeah, sleep would be good, especially considering he’s still got to get Max for school in the morning.

 

His eyes slide shut as he relaxes into the quilt, and he dreams of what Pemberley might look like.

  


*.*

  


“You didn’t do your hair this morning,” Max remarks when she slides into the passenger seat.

 

“Didn’t have time,” Billy mumbles. “Woke up late.”

 

“Are you going to school?”

 

“Nah.”

 

“... Did you quit school?”

 

Billy snorts.

 

“This close to fucking graduating? I wouldn’t give that fucker the satisfaction,” he sneers. “No. I’m not quitting.”

 

“... So why aren’t you going in today?”

 

Billy runs his fingers through his hair.

 

“You’re fucking nosy, you know that?” he says. “It’s none of your business.”

 

Max scowls at him, but thankfully doesn’t push. He doesn’t exactly know how to explain his plans for today, because, well…

 

It’s kind of weird.

 

He’d had the idea this morning when he’d been driving to pick her up. There’s… okay, so there’s rabbits. In the woods. Rabbits can be eaten. Billy doesn’t want to be spending money on meat if he’s going to be spending days on end living in a shack in the woods, because meat’s expensive. There’s a smokehouse by the cottage.

 

So, with all that in mind, Billy’s going to the library. For research.

 

Max stays quiet for the rest of the trip, so Billy turns up the music and lights a cigarette. He knows it isn’t the end of it— he’ll have to go to school tomorrow, if only to keep the school from calling Neil— because Max is like a dog with a bone, he’s noticed. Or she is now, since she nearly nailed his balls to the Byers’ kitchen floor.

 

She’s not going to let this stuff go, the _where are you sleeping_ stuff. Probably not the _your dad hits you stuff,_ either, though she hasn’t brought that up again since the night she caught him slipping out. He wonders if she told her friends. She wonders if they passed on the news to their respective older siblings.

 

Suddenly, Billy is rethinking his resolve to finish school.

  


*.*

  


So, setting snares is easy, all it takes is a bit of wire and stakes. Billy spends a few hours looking for the best spots to set them, carefully searching for what look like possible rabbit tracks in the snow before hammering the traps into place. The hardest part will be the waiting— the books say not to check the snares more than once every twenty-four hours— but Billy figures he’s got enough reading to do that it won’t matter much. He’s even taking notes, pausing to copy down step-by-step instructions and advice regarding the skinning and cleaning of his hopeful kills.

 

It seems a bit silly, putting so much effort into this stuff when he’ll probably never use any of it, but he just… he has this feeling, you know? That it could be useful. That it will be useful, when the money he has squirreled away under the spare tire in his trunk runs out and he needs to find a way to take care of himself.

 

Funny, how he’s already starting to think like he won’t be living with Neil after graduation. Billy had always assumed he would, but… it’s odd, to start taking steps regarding the process of getting the fuck out.

 

Because, let’s face it— Billy doesn’t have the money to go back to California, not yet. And even if he gets a job now, he doesn’t have enough time to save up for a downpayment on an apartment, which will of course be made harder by the fact that his dad’ll start demanding a cut, probably. He’d pull some bullshit like that. It’s his style.

 

So yeah. Snares. Rabbits. Billy has no idea what that’s gonna taste like, but he gets the feeling he ought to get some salt and pepper.

  


*.*

  


School is horrible. Billy’s hair is wet (there’s no way to blow dry his hair in a shack that’s got no electricity), it’s cold outside, and Tommy _won’t shut the fuck up._

 

Billy just wants it all to be over.

 

The worst part of it all, though, is when he accidentally runs into Harrington in the parking lot during lunch, desperate for a smoke but shivering even in the supposedly warm air of mid-March.

 

Fuck Indiana. Billy hasn’t been truly warm in months.

 

“Hargrove?”

 

Harrington looks surprised to see him, or maybe he’s just surprised by how disheveled he looks, hair more of a morning frizz than the teased curls Billy prefers. If that’s the case, Billy can’t help but feel a little insulted— after all, Harrington’s looked like shit for months, a mixture of weight loss and sleepless night turning him into a pale, skeletal parody of the king that Billy had destroyed.

 

Billy’s lip curled.

 

“What the fuck are you doing out here, Harrington?” he asks, pulling himself to his full height. Harrington blinks, then shrugs, reaching into the pocket of his windbreaker to pull out a crumpled cigarette pack.

 

“Same as you, I figure,” he says. “Um, just saying? You’re shaking like a leaf. Maybe it’s a good idea to button up your shirt?”

 

Mom friend. Billy can tell he’s the mom friend, the designated driver and curfew keeper, the guy who sucks all the fun out of a night. How the hell was this goody two-shoes ever at the top of the high school hierarchy?

 

“Fuck off, Harrington, I’m fine.”

 

Harrington actually rolls his eyes at him, searching his pockets for something before tugging at the zipper of his backpack. Billy watches, unsure if the guy’s looking for a lighter or something else.

 

The answer is something else, specifically a thick-knit, royal blue beanie that looks like it’s homemade. Steve holds it out, giving Billy an expectant look.

 

“Take it,” he says, when it’s apparent that Billy isn’t going to move. “Your hair’s going to fucking freeze off, and it’s making me cold just looking at you.”

 

Oh, yeah. Definitely the mom friend.

 

“Don’t need it,” Billy says, crossing his arms. “I told you, Harrington, I’m fine. I don’t need your stupid hat.”

 

“Oh, don’t be a bitch, just take it,” Harrington says flatly. “I’ve got like, ten more at home, and anyway, blue’s not my color.”

 

“And it’s mine?”

 

Steve shrugs, hand still outstretched to hand Billy the beanie.

 

“... If I take it, will you go away?” Billy asks. “I wanted peace during my fucking lunch break, not company.”

 

“Sure,” Harrington says agreeably. “So long as you put it on.”

 

It’s a trap, it has to be, but at the same time, Billy would rather not get into a fight on school premises. That sort of thing is more trouble than it’s worth.

 

He takes the stupid hat and jams it over his curls, giving Harrington a baleful glare.

 

“There. Now leave,” he says.

 

“Sure thing,” Harrington says, and it’s almost cheerful. He walks away, just like that, and leaves Billy feeling a little… lost.

 

Frowning, he stubs out his cigarette and reaches for another. He doesn’t take off the hat until he heads back into school.

 

It’s actually pretty warm.


	6. Chapter 6

 

The traps are fucking empty when Billy gets back to the cottage, so he stomps home and opens a can of Campbell’s to eat over his homework, annoyance buzzing under his skin. But then, he supposes, what did he expect? It’s not like he’s actually _ done  _ anything like this before. Shit, he doesn’t even know if rabbit tastes okay.

 

There’s a knock on the door, and Billy looks up to see Jane peeking in through the window. She waves, pushing open the door and stepping inside with a smile.

 

“Saw the light,” she says, pointing to the candles. “Came back sooner. What happened?” She points to his face.

 

Billy reaches up to touch the already fading bruise on his cheek absently.

 

“My dad,” he says, and suddenly, he’s exhausted. “It happens, sometimes.”

 

Jane’s face goes soft and sad.

 

“Oh.” She hesitates, then holds out a hand. “Sorry.”

 

Billy sighs.

 

“Not your fault,” he says, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “I said something dumb.”

 

“My dad says that nobody should hit kids, no matter how bratty they’re being,” Jane says, and Billy supposes a man who takes in a foster kid might say something like that, especially if Jane was with ‘bad men’. He figures she probably got smacked around a little, too.

 

“I’m not a kid,” he points out, letting his hand drop. “Not anymore. I turn eighteen in a month.”

 

“Still,” Jane says. “People shouldn’t hurt people.”

 

Aw, she’s adorable.

 

Jane gives him a little smile, like she can read his mind or something.

 

“Brought stuff,” she says, patting the strap of her backpack. “Can I stay, Bill?”

 

Billy shrugs, gesturing at the other, empty chair.

 

“You want some soup?” he asks. “It’s cold out.”

 

“No,” Jane says. “Thanks.”

 

She plops down and starts to pull out her books, and after a moment, Billy gets back to his homework.

 

He finds he doesn’t mind the company too much.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Billy starts catching rabbits eventually, after he moves his traps one, two, three, four times, and through the clever use of book knowledge, anatomy, and trial and error that involves more literal shit on his hands than Billy is comfortable admitting, he even manages to make a few ready to eat after a week or two of practice.

 

Jane comes over nearly every day that he’s there (which is almost _ every  _ day, even after he goes back to sleeping at his father’s on school nights), and watches with wide, curious eyes as he teaches himself to tear away the skin in a few sharp tugs and gut it without bursting the bladder or stomach. She’s there when he starts fiddling with the smokehouse, tapping the ancient, mercury-filled thermometer like it might explode at any minute and reading up on smoky woods. She’s the one who, when he finds and sharpens the axe hidden away in the back of the shed, leads him to a section of forest filled with papery birches that fall with relative ease once Billy puts his back into it.

 

Jane is always there, a silent observer as Billy fumbles his way into hillbilly know-how, picks up a few things herself, always sure to stoke the fire in the stove or ready the kettle for tea when they get back from an afternoon of wandering around the woods. In the hours between nightfall and the time she decides to wander back home, they read, now aided by a battery-powered camping light that Jane brought from home. Sometimes, Billy reads aloud to her from the old books in the basement. Mostly, though, she reads to him, carefully enunciating each word from the Dr. Seuss collection she’s now working her way through.

 

By the time May rolls around, Billy has something of a handle on this ‘living in the woods’ thing. He knows how to work the smokehouse, knows how to chop wood, and knows how to give himself a proper wash in the little bucket without making a mess of the whole goddamn room. He’s thinking he might just move all of his things here, once he’s graduated, and figure out what to do with himself afterwards.

 

“You should get chickens,” Jane tells him one day out of the blue. “Chickens are nice.”

 

Billy blinks at her.

 

“I don’t know how to take care of chickens,” he feels the need to point out.

 

Jane shrugs.

 

“Feed, protect,” she says. “Like me.”

 

Billy finds it easy to laugh around Jane, and that makes him laugh.

 

“Who needs chickens, then?” he says. “I’ve already got one.”

 

Jane giggles.

 

“Not a chicken,” she says.

 

“You sure?” Billy tilts his head to one side. “Sure you’re not growing feathers somewhere, chickie?”

 

Jane lets him touch her, lets him ruffle her hair and settle an arm over her shoulders. She doesn’t mind when he reaches out to tickle her, like she’s five instead of probably fifteen.

 

Billy doesn’t know why he acts like this with her, but as her laughter fills the little cottage and she bats at his hands, he figures it’s alright.

 

No one’s around to see him go soft.

  
  


*.*

  
  


The idea of chickens sticks in his mind, and he starts thinking about how maybe, maybe it would be a good idea, because chickens make eggs and eggs taste nice.

 

There’s a farmer’s market three towns over, and Billy decides it might be worth checking out— just to look, mind. Maybe get some advice.

 

It’s a sunny day when Billy pulls into the grassy lot, and warm enough for just his denim. The market’s already bustling with life, suburban mothers tugging around their kids as they go from stall to stall picking out whatever it is they buy. Curious, Billy stops at every stall, noting that hey, people apparently like to buy shit like ‘organic’ jam for twice what Smucker’s costs at the grocery store. Maybe he should look into buying some seeds, while he’s here, make a little extra spending cash. After all, he’s got the rabbit thing down pat, now— making jam shouldn’t be too hard, right?

 

The sellers themselves are an interesting mix of practical-looking manly men with tucked in flannel shirts and long-haired hippie types that smell like patchouli and blaring Grateful Dead out of the speakers of their dilapidated vans. Billy catches the flannel guys watching him distrustfully on more than one occasion, so naturally, he wanders up to the hippies.

 

“Hey, brother,” greets an older man from behind a table laden with honey, thick streaks of gray in his otherwise brown ponytail. “What can I do for you?”

 

“I’m…” Billy stops, suddenly uncertain. “I’m looking at chickens? Buying them, keeping them— that sort of thing.”

 

The man nods slowly, an amicable smile on his bearded face.

 

“Then you’ll want to talk to Paulina at the eggs,” he says, pointing down the row. “She’s the one who keeps ‘em for us back at the community.”

 

“Uh, thanks.”

 

“No problem, brother,” the man says easily. “I’m Gene. And you are?”

 

“... Bill.”

 

“Nice to meet you, Bill.”

 

Billy blinks, then gives the man a smile that teeters on cruelty.

 

“Nice to meet you to, Gene.”


	7. Chapter 7

Paulina is a skinny Polish lady in her forties with beads in her blonde hair and a thick accent voice that’s deeper than Billy’s and frankly catches him off-guard. Actually, everything about this woman takes him off-guard, because before he can even open his mouth to introduce herself she stabs a long, baby pink nail in his direction.

 

“You, you look hungry. Sit, I feed you. Sit!”

 

Billy sits, and she smiles at him.

 

“Gene said he sent boy named Bill to me,” she says. “You are Bill, yes?”

 

“... Yes?” It literally took Billy two minutes to walk from the honey guy’s stall to here. So how…?

 

“Good. Stay. My daughter will make plate for you. Weronika!” Paulina turns, and Billy sees a a younger-but-otherwise carbon copy of Paulina poke her head out from around the van.

 

“Yeah, mom?”

 

“Make Bill lunch, please,” Paulina says. “Then come. He’s here to talk about chickens.”

 

Weronika nods and disappears behind the van, reappearing a moment later with a hot pink plastic camping plate piled high with potatoes, a porkchop, and some weird red stuff that Billy doesn’t recognize.

 

“The red stuff’s beets,” Weronika says as she hands him the plate and a fork. She doesn’t have an accent. “Mix it with the porkchop’s for peak flavor. You want a coke?”

 

“... I guess?”

 

Weronika smiles at him and reaches for the small cooler in the van, pulling out a familiar red can and setting it on the fold-out table at Billy’s elbow.

 

Unsure of what else to do, Billy starts eating. After all… he _ is  _ hungry.

 

The beets are fucking fantastic, though he doesn’t think he’d eat them on their own. He gets so distracted by the food, actually, that he doesn’t remember he has an actual reason for coming here until the plate’s empty.

 

He looks over at Paulina, who’s smiling.

 

“Growing boys need their food,” she says. “Want more? Weronika, bring Bill more.”

 

Billy’s cheeks flash pink.

 

“Uh, no, that’s okay,” he says. “I’m full. Thank you.”

 

“Liar. Come, Weronika, bring him second helping.”

 

“You really don’t—” Paulina shoots him a piercing glare, and Billy shuts up.

 

“Smart boy,” she says, smiling at him again. “You want to know about chickens? Why? You don’t look like man who keeps chickens.”

 

“Well, ma’am,” Billy says, giving her one of those smiles reserved for unsatisfied wives and teenaged sluts. “Looks can be deceiving.”

 

Paulina clicks her tongue, but there’s still humor in her dark eyes.

 

“You know you are handsome,” she says. “Makes you cocky. That’s okay. Chickens will teach humility. They shit everywhere.”

 

She reaches over to the cooler and pulls out two glass beer bottles, popping the caps with a keychain before handing one over to Billy.

 

“You want for eggs, yes?” she says. “In which case, I recommend two hens. Only one gets lonely. I give you rooster for free, too— good for soup, if he’s too much a dick.”

 

“Oh, no, I can’t buy any today, I’m not exactly—”

 

“Chickens are dollar for one,” Paulina interrupts. “Ten pound bag of feed is eight dollars. Chicken house can be made with milk crates, old cabinet, and deadbolt. Plus, my chickens trained already, so you don’t have to build cage. Just ring bell and they come, easy.”

 

Billy blinks. Chickens only cost a dollar?

 

“You take rooster I give you feed for six dollars,” Paulina says when he’s quiet a beat too long for her. “I can’t have him around anymore.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Too many babies,” she says, arching an eyebrow. “We have two hundred chicks on farm now, can you believe? All because of one fuckhead. That’s why I selling, now.”

 

Well, maybe Billy could use more than two chickens. There’s probably foxes and shit in the woods, anyway.

 

“I… yeah, okay,” he says. “Two chickens, a rooster, some feed… Any chance you know where I could get milk crates and a cabinet?”

 

Paulina nods and looks over to her daughter, who’s smoking a cigarette and apparently not involved in this at all.

 

“Weronika, is that boy around? The one you used to fuck?”

 

“I never fucked him, Mama,” Weronika says, apparently unbothered by her mother’s words save for the slight pink tinge that touches her round cheeks. “But yes. Ben’s stall’s down that way.”

 

“Take Bill and have him get cheap coop for chickens,” she says. “Then have Ben put in truck and drive to house. Bill, you live close?”

 

“Hawkins, yeah.”

 

“Hawkins? Not much in the way of farms in Hawkins.”

 

“I live in the woods, technically,” Billy says after a moment. “Outside.”

 

Paulina blinks, then leans forward.

 

“You are off grid?” she asks. “Or are you in one of those rich people cabins?”

 

Billy snorts.

 

“Ma’am, my place doesn’t even have electricity.”

 

“Damn, that’s old school,” Weronika says. “So what, you’re woodburning?”

 

“Yeah.” Billy pauses. “Got a smokehouse, too. And I’ve been thinking about planting a few things.”

 

“Potatoes good for winter,” Paulina says, nodding. “Fills you up, and last even without refrigerator. Onions good too, but have to pickle first. Same for cucumber. Do you have root cellar?”

 

“Yeah, actually.”

 

“Good for keeping things cold,” she says. “Not quite fridge, but things last longer in root cellar than in pantry. If you plant in month or so you might get lucky and have things to put away before first frost.”

 

“Jams are really good, too, for that sort of thing,” Weronika adds. “You can make lots of sweet things with a little bit of jam.”

 

“When finished with cabinet, come back here,” Paulina says. “I will have chickens and seeds for you. Extra two dollars, and I give you recipes, too.”

 

Billy… Billy would appreciate that, actually. For ten dollars, he’s getting chickens, feed, seeds, and a guide to make shit that’ll last the winter and have the potential of giving him a little extra spending cash? Sign him the fuck up.

 

“Yes, ma’am, that sounds perfect,” he says. “Thanks very much for your help.”

 

Weronika leads him away with an easy smile and a wheel in her walk.

 

“Sorry about my mom,” she says, peaking up at him through a curtain of soft blonde hair. “She can be a little forceful.”

 

“Ah, it’s alright,” he says, flapping a hand. “I like a woman with a little bite.”

 

“I’m sure you do,” Weronika agrees, giving him a sly small. “You like your hair pulled, don’t you?”

 

Billy grins but doesn’t answer. It seems these hippies aren’t so bad as he was expecting.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Ben is a big black dude with a rusty red Ford pick up and a happy smile that never seems to dim. Apparently, he’s a mover or some shit, and likes to sell off the old furniture people ask him to throw out on the weekends.

 

He gives Billy a torn up old wardrobe for twenty bucks and offers to drive it— and the chickens— back to Billy’s place.

 

Weronika tags along in Ben’s truck, just because she can.

 

Billy’s a little uncertain about letting strangers just, you know, show up at the house he’s technically squatting in, but he figures it doesn’t really matter what they think of where he lives. It’s not like they’re going to be spreading it around Hawkins, or anything.

 

“Really old school, man, I dig it,” Weronika says again as she hops out of the Ford. “You got a lot of good land, here.”

 

“You hunt?” Ben asks, nodding towards the smokehouse.

 

Billy shrugs.

 

“I’ve been catching rabbits ‘n’ shit,” he says. “Seemed the easiest, since I didn’t wanna get a gun.”

 

“Rabbits are good eatin’,” Ben says. “Good for soup, too. Um, where do you want your coop?”

 

Billy pauses, then looks around.

 

“I… don’t know,” he says after a moment. “Maybe against the house?”

 

“One of the big trees might be better,” Weronika says. “You can nail it in place, then.”

 

Billy shrugs and goes to help Ben unload the wardrobe, along with the handful of milk crates Paulina had thrown in the truckbed, as well.

 

“I’ll cut up the crates,” Weronika says, taking them. “The dimensions should fit eight, easy, so there’s room for expansion, plus it’s deep enough that the chickens have a little bit of breathing room. Good find, Benny.”

 

“I aim to please,” Benny says with a little flourish. “Lemme just grab my toolbox and we’ll have it set up in a jiff.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


That night, Billy goes to bed with the knowledge that he has two hens and a rooster to feed in the morning, and they’re safely locked up in their new, properly ventilated, properly insulated chicken coop for the night. He also has two new addresses and phone numbers to keep— you know, just in case.

 

He doesn’t feel as weird about that as he maybe should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weronika= Veronica, in case that wasn't obvious. It's pronounced almost the same, too, except with a little more stress on the 'i'.
> 
> Paulina is pretty much every Polish mother I've ever met, and the feeding thing only gets worse with age.


	8. Chapter 8

Billy thinks he should probably be a little freaked out with how quickly his brain switches tracks from ‘place to hide out in on the weekends’ to ‘where I live’. After all, he’s choosing a glorified shack in the woods over a house with electricity and running water and all of his worldly possessions— well, most of his worldly possessions. Some of them. A few of them?

 

It’s mid-May when Billy realizes that, save for the posters on the wall and his weight gear, Billy has essentially moved everything he owns to the cottage, along with three of the twelve toolboxes that his dad keeps in the garage but doesn’t really know how to use and the extra set of gardening tools Neil had gotten Susan for her birthday that she definitely hadn’t needed or wanted but smiled at anyway. 

 

He’s been living outside of his father’s home for at least a month and a half and it doesn’t look like anyone’s noticed except Max, who’s pretty much only paying attention to him because he’s her ride, and if she needs to get somewhere that isn’t school or home, she has to find him before he disappears again, because he sure as hell isn’t going to be coming home.

 

She hasn’t stopped asking after his whereabouts, but now, it’s become sort of playful, an inside joke that gets shouted across the arcade parking lot or a parting phrase as Max slides out of the passenger seat and hops onto the sidewalk outside of the Hargrove house. Everything between them has gotten easier, actually, now that Billy’s not being forced to follow her around like a beat fucking dog. They even have conversations, now. Real ones, ones that aren’t full of resentment and the quiet threat of violence.

 

It’s actually kinda… nice.

 

They get some kind of routine going, one that doesn’t chafe on either of their delicate sensibilities too much. Billy drives her to school every morning on his way to class— this prompts him to start waking up earlier, to feed his chickens, Deep, Purple, and the rooster whose name he hadn’t yet decided on, which in turn prompts him to stop going out as much, because waking up early tends to lead to going to bed early, and Billy seriously needs his sleep if he wants to survive his last semester as a high school student— and waits for her in the middle school parking lot after AV Club. If she wants to go home, he takes her home, but more often than not, she gives him an address and a time and goes off with her nerd friends, leaving him to wile away the next few hours doing whatever he pleases, which usually involves stopping by the library and picking up stuff for Jane to read to him when she inevitably shows up within minutes of Billy himself at the cottage. 

 

He spends his time with Jane, doing homework, cleaning, making dinner, whatever— then goes to pick Max up, dropping her off in front of the Hargrove house and peeling away before Neil can notice either of them are there. If it’s a Friday night, she’ll usually tell him if she has plans for the weekend, so he can be around to drive her then, too.

 

It’s not so bad, really. It’s not bad at all.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Purple is sitting pretty on a batch of eggs that earn him pecks whenever Billy tries to take them, so he leaves her alone and focuses on Deep instead, carding his fingers through her light brown feathers almost absently as he sits on the front porch. He’d gone to the farmer’s market again three weeks or so ago, to pick up a few necessities and have another chat with Paulina. While he’d been there, Ben had been kind enough to hand off an old rocking chair— the one that lives on Billy’s porch, now, protesting with each movement with angry creaks but otherwise seems sturdy.

 

The snow is starting to melt away properly, and Billy’s starting to pick out his plots. Potatoes over there, beets over there, a couple of fruit trees over there… He figures it’ll be a process of trial and error, the same way that everything so far has been, but it can’t be that hard, can it? After all, Billy knows how to garden.

 

“Bill!”

 

Billy breaks into a reflexive smile as Jane comes tromping out of the forest, arms wrapped around a bundle of cloth.

 

“Chickie,” he says, setting Deep onto the floor as he gets to his feet. “Why aren’t you wearing your scarf? It’s still cold out.”

 

He’s still bundled up, in his way, Harrington’s blue knit hat pulled low around his ears and fingerless gloves on his hands, but he can take a little cold. Jane’s still small, and delicate.

 

She smiles up at him, smacking her snow-encrusted boots against the porch steps before climbing up.

 

“Found a puppy,” she says, holding out the bundle that, upon closer examination, appears to be her missing scarf. “It was cold.”

 

“What?” Billy leans down to see a little black nose peeking out of the folds of the scarf. Frowning, he pulls back the fabric to find a sharp, furry brown face and bat-like ears. Brown eyes flutter open, and the little thing bears its teeth.

 

“Oh, shit.”

 

“Can’t take it home,” she says. “My dad’s allergic to dogs. So, brought it here.”

 

Billy nods thoughtfully.

 

“Alright,” he says. “Um… I guess I can take it to the shelter tomorrow. It’s— it’s probably a stray, or something. Or, part of the litter of a stray?”

 

Jane shrugs, and Billie sighs.

 

“Alright, well, whatever. Bring him inside, Chickie. He needs to warm up.”

 

Jane’s entire being brightens and she skips inside, door creaking open before she can even touch it.

 

Billy really must get that fixed.

  
  


*.*

  
  


The puppy is stupid, and Billy feels completely justified in using a word he’d gotten from the Mexicans dudes he used to play ball with back in LA and calling it  _ cabron. _ He does not, however, explain what the word means to Jane, because she’d pout at him, he’s certain.

 

He is weak against her pouts.

 

Cabron is more than happy to snap up the little strips of rabbit Billy feeds them, yipping in complaint when the food stops coming and getting just as excited when Jane sets down a bowl of water for them to drink. Babies are easily entertained, Billy remembers, and Cabron is no different. They’re just furrier.

 

Jane stays for dinner— Kraft Mac ‘n’ Cheese this time— and heads home, sans puppy. Billy, uncertain of what else to do, makes Cabron a nest of old sheets in the washbucket and lays down with a book, falling asleep before he gets to Lilliput in Gulliver’s Travels.

 

He’s not the surprised when he wakes up in the morning to find Cabron has climbed into the bed with him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, someone reminded me that I liked this fic when they sent me an ask on tumblr, so I opened it and reread it and found like, half of the next chapter already written. Suddenly very motivated to finish said chapter, I did, so here you go.

 

Planting is hard. Billy realizes this somewhere between the first hour of breaking through half-frozen dirt and the eighth. It’s hard, and it takes a lot of work, and Billy isn’t sure he wants to put in that kind of work.

 

Jane is sitting on the porch by Billy’s order, keeping Cabron entertained and her clothes clean. Billy has more filth on his clothes than he’s ever had before, and he doesn’t want an irate Jane-parent banging on the door to his squat.

 

Growling to himself, he gives up when he checks his watch and realizes that he’s supposed to pick up Max at the arcade in twenty minutes.

 

“I gotta go, Chickie,” he calls. “Stay and watch the dog for me?”

 

“Yeah, okay.” Jane doesn’t move, too entranced by the way Cabron leaps after the hem of her scarf as she tugs it back and forth against the wood of the porch.

 

Billy sighs.

 

“And go inside, please?”

 

Jane huffs, rolling her eyes, but does as she’s asked, lifting Cabron up into her arms and carrying him inside.

 

Billy snorts.

 

Freakin’ teenagers.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Billy looks like he’s been kneeling in mud when he pulls up in front of the arcade.

 

“What happened to you?” Max asks as she slides into the passenger seat.

 

Billy grimaces around his cigarette. His gloves and fingertips are caked in dirt as well, and his hair is damp with sweat where it sticks out from under his beanie.

 

“Gardening,” he grunts after a beat too long.

 

Max arches an eyebrow.

 

“Gardening,” she repeats flatly. “That’s what you’re going with, here?”

 

“Extreme gardening,” Billy says. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

Max’s frown deepens.

 

“You know,” she says, tone deceptively casual. “I get that you like being all mysterious about where you live and stuff, but it’s really starting to bug me that you’re just… in the wind. Like, for all I know you’re living in the woods somewhere, living off bark or something.”

 

Billy can’t help it; he snorts.

 

“Well, there’s no bark involved,” he promises, sucking on the cigarette he has pinched between his teeth.

 

“But living in the woods is?”

 

Billy sighs.

 

“Has dad noticed?” he asks, turning to look at her. “That I’m gone?”

 

Max shrugs.

 

“I mean, I guess?” she says. “He knows your room’s empty, at least— he busted in their like, a month ago, ‘cause I got home late from Lucas’.”

 

Billy winces.

 

“You really should stop hanging out with that kid,” he says. “Dad’ll kill you if he finds out you’re hanging out with someone like him.”

 

“You don’t know anything about him,” Max says, brow furrowing angrily. “Why do you say shit like that, Billy?”

 

“... Okay, I’m gonna be real honest with you for a second, Max.” Billy ashes his cigarette out the window with a sharp flick. “My dad? Fucking _ hates  _ black people. Like, _ really  _ hates them. If he finds out you’re hanging with the Sinclair kid, he’s gonna start causing problems for him— for his whole family, if he can manage. You get me?”

 

Max stares at him a moment, then crosses her arms, slumping back in her seat.

 

“That’s messed up,” she says. “He’s nice. He’s really nice, Billy.”

 

“I wouldn’t know,” Billy says. “But I do know that Neil’s not going to give a shit whether he’s nice or not. So if you’re gonna keep hanging with him, you’ve gotta keep your shit straight. Don’t come home late, don’t talk about who you’re with, don’t even look at the kid if Neil’s in the same room, okay? Because I really don’t think you’ll get permission to visit him in the hospital if dad finds out he’s getting cozy with his stepdaughter— don’t look at me like that, Maxine, I’m not blind.”

 

Max huffs, face red.

 

“We aren’t even doing anything,” she mutters. “I just like him, y’know? He’s cool.”

 

“I have absolutely zero interest in talking about your love life,” Billy informs her. “Let’s change the subject.”

 

“Fine. Where do you live, Billy? Seriously.”

 

Billy sighs.

 

“I got a little place up in the woods,” he says. “It’s tiny, but it works for me.”

 

“... I was _ joking,  _ you asshole.”

 

“I’m not.” He glances at her from out of the corner of his eye. “I got two chickens and a rooster, and a dog, and I’m trying to see if I can maybe grow some stuff so I don’t have to keep buying shit from the grocery store.” He’s losing a lot of money that way, what with all that buying shit, and he didn’t have all that much to begin with.

 

“Chickens?” Max pauses, then asks, a little more excitement in her voice, “You’ve got a  _ dog?” _

 

Billy nods.

 

“There’s a little girl that lives nearby,” he says. “She found this puppy, right, and brought it to my place. I meant to take him to the shelter, but…” he trails off, shrugging. “Haven’t gotten around to it.”

 

“Can I visit?” Max asks.

 

“Why?” he asks. “It’s bare bones, Maxine— there’s no electricity, no water… just like, a pump outside and an outhouse. I’m basically squatting.” No, he straight up _ is  _ squatting, but he’s not going to actually admit to that out loud.

 

“But you have a _ dog,”  _ Max says like it’s obvious. “A  _ puppy.  _ What’s its name?”

 

“... Cabron.”

 

Max blinks.

 

“You’re an asshole,” she says again, sounding a little disappointed. “Is it cute, at least?”

 

“Sure, I guess. Mostly he’s stupid.” Billy pauses. “If you want… I can bring him with me, when I pick you up after school tomorrow.”

 

“Yes!” Max reaches out to grab his arm in her excitement, making him flinch. She pulls away immediately, like she’s been burned. “Oh— sorry.”

 

Billy shakes his head, cursing inwardly.

 

“It’s fine,” he mutters, even though it’s clearly not. “Just wasn’t expecting it.”

 

An awkward silence descends between them for the rest of the drive, broken only when Billy pulls up in front of the house.

 

“Hey,” he calls after Max when she slides out of the seat. “I’ll bring the dog when I pick you up tomorrow. You can show him off to all your little nerd friends, okay?”

 

Max blinks, a slow smile spreading across her round face.

 

“That would be awesome,” she says. “Thanks, Billy.”

 

“No problem,” he says. “See you tomorrow.”

 

He waits until she’s at the door, then peels away before something shitty can happen, like his dad catching sight of him. After all, the day is still young, and he’s got a shit ton of work to do, not to mention a weird little kid back at the house who’s probably getting bored sitting alone without a television.

 

Something about the idea makes him feel weird. Sort of… maybe happy?

 

Billy hasn’t been happy in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted a little more Max and Billy time, guys. I crave the family bonding that should be happening.


	10. Chapter 10

Cabron loves the drive to Hawkins Middle School. He would’ve jumped out of the window the moment they started moving if not for the little rope that Billy wisely had attached to him via a repurposed bandana he had in the glove box of his car. As it stands, Billy has to slide out of the car through the passenger’s side anyway, because the idiot puppy absolutely _ loses  _ it when he sees all the kids huddled around a ready and waiting Maxine Mayfield.

 

“Oh my God, he’s so _ cute,”  _ Max says, cutting off all conversation to rush up and pet the puppy wriggling in Billy’s arms. “Oh my God, oh my _ God…” _

 

She squeezes her eyes shut as Cabron licks her chin ecstatically, apparently approving of Billy’s stepsister. Which is good, because that means he doesn’t complain when Billy dumps him into her arms, shoving the end of the rope into her hand.

 

“Seriously?” he hears the kid with the fucked up teeth and white-boy afro. “All it takes is a freakin’ dog and you’re just _ over  _ it?”

 

“I didn’t know about the dog ‘til yesterday,” Max says, running her fingers through Cabron’s fair wonderingly. “Billy’s not so bad, now.”

 

All the boys turn to look at him at once. Billy pins them all with his worst glare, because fuck you, Max.

 

“... Nah, don’t see it,” the boy says after a moment, looking away with a shudder.

 

“Can I pet him?” the tiny one— Byers’ little brother, Billy’s pretty sure— asks quietly, not meeting his eye.

 

Billy crosses his arms.

 

“I don’t give a fuck,” he says, looking away. He doesn’t like the little Byers very much. The kid seems off, somehow, like he’s not really supposed to be here at all. Maybe he isn’t— Billy’s heard all about how he came back from the friggin’ dead, after all.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the kid move, timid as he reaches out to touch Cabron, who naturally responds to the new friend with over-the-top enthusiasm, wriggling to lick at Byers’ hands excitedly.

 

The kid smiles like— well, like a little kid.

 

Billy reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes.

 

“You can hold him if you want,” he says, flicking his lighter and trying his hardest to look nonchalant. He’s a dick, but he’s not going to fuck with an eighth grader who was actually fucking  _ kidnapped. _ “He won’t mind.”

 

Max passes Cabron over without a word, and Billy is graced with the a positively angelic smile from Byers— like, _ right up there with Jane’s smiles, _ angelic.

 

Jesus, these kids are nearly high school age. Why do they still look like that? They should be like, getting acne and growing patchy beards at this point, shouldn’t they? Or do they have to cross the threshold of Hawkins High first?

 

Once Byers has Cabron, the other kids get in on the action, crowding their tiny friend to rub at the puppy’s too big ears and grin at the little, happy yips they get in response.

 

Max takes the opportunity to sidle up to Billy.

 

“Neil asked about you,” she murmurs quietly. “He saw your car last night.”

 

Billy goes cold.

 

“He said you owe him for the car,” she continues, words quiet and carefully flat. “Says if you’re gonna keep driving it, you ought to pay for it.”

 

“Car’s in my name,” Billy says numbly. “I’ve got the title at my place. He can’t do shit.”

 

Max stares at him a moment, then nods.

 

“Okay,” she says. “Just figured you’d want to know.”

 

Billy doesn’t, he really doesn’t, but what he wants doesn’t matter in the face of what he needs. He needs to know if his dad’s asking questions.

 

“I’m gonna have to ditch it,” he says distantly. “It’s too obvious.”

 

“Why?”

 

Billy shakes his head, flicking his cigarette violently.

 

“Everybody knows my car,” he says, rubbing a hand viciously over his face. “All he has to do is ask around, and— and—” He’ll know where Billy is. He’ll know where Billy is and he’ll fucking drag him back to his house.

 

“Okay, who brought the dog?” Harrington calls, jerking Billy from what might have been the beginning of a minor nervous breakdown. All of them look just in time to watch him slam his door shut, ambling up to the group wearing a pair of shades that cover most of his face, the pretentious fuck.

 

“He’s Billy’s,” Max pipes up, grinning. “His name’s Cabron, and he’s the sweetest thing in the world. Right, Will?”

 

Byers nods, turning that stupid, happy smile on Steve.

 

“He’s just so little,” he says.

 

Steve sighs exasperatedly, except not really, because it’s more fond than anything, tinged with a little bit of drama to cover the fact that he almost definitely staring at Billy from behind those sunglasses.

 

Billy really doesn’t want to have to talk to this asshole, so he does the reasonable thing and bows out.

 

“Max, we gotta go,” he says, flicking away his half-finished cigarette. “Neil’ll be pissed if you’re late.”

 

Max— thankfully— takes his words for what they’re worth, and starts to say her goodbyes. After a moment, Byers pulls away from the huddle and approaches Billy, holding out Cabron for him to take.

 

Byers has very cold hands, Billy notes when their fingers brush as he tugs Cabron out of the kid’s grasp. Maybe he’s anemic or something— he’s pale enough that he might be.

 

Whatever. Not his business. He ignores Harrington completely as he loops around to the driver’s door, Cabron tucked under his arm, and throws the car into gear the moment Max shuts the passenger door, gunning it for Neil’s house.

 

“Drop me off a block away,” Max says, instinctively knowing to catch Cabron before he manages to wriggle down into the space between Billy’s feet and hold him in her lap. “I’ll say Dustin’s mom dropped me off on the way.”

 

“Cool.”

 

There’s a beat of silence.

 

“We’re supposed to meet up at the arcade on Saturday,” she says after a moment. “If you want, I can get Steve to drive me.”

 

“... No. It’s fine.” Billy moves to run an agitated hand through his hair and finds wool. Oh. Maybe Harrington was staring at him because he was wearing the hat the guy gave him. “I’ll come pick you up.”

 

Max watches him carefully for a second, then nods.

 

“Yeah, okay. If you’re sure.”

 

Billy really isn’t, but fuck if he’s going to let Neil get to him.

 

Fuck Neil.


	11. Chapter 11

Apparently, Purple wasn’t just sitting on a couple of eggs, she was sitting on  _ babies— _ babies that are now stowed away in a crate in the corner of the shack, where it’s nice and warm and there’s no chance they’re going to get like, eaten by wolves or something.

 

Cabron actually leaves them alone, mostly, content to sniff at the edge of the crate before decided they were boring and returning to his favorite spot on Billy’s bed. He’s gotten pretty big in the short time Billy’s had him— only a few weeks— and it’s getting hard to sleep comfortably when half of the double mattress is full of fur and paws.

 

Yeah, the whole ‘sleeping in Billy’s bed’ thing? That’s going to have to stop soon.

 

Jane loves the chicks immediately, of course, and has apparently caught on to Billy’s little theme with the hens, because she promptly names all ten of them—  Iron and Maiden, Motley and Crue, Judas and Priest, Black and Sabbath, and Alice and Cooper. If anything, Billy feels a little proud as he watches her pick up each chick and whisper their new names— it seems like their impromptu music lessons are starting to stick.

 

(Seriously, though. She joined in when he brought the boombox outside after lunch once, singing her heart out to  _ Breakin’ the Law  _ like she was Rob Halford himself. She wasn’t half-bad, either.)

 

He’s going to need a bigger chicken coop, and quickly, because it looks like Deep’s following Purple’s lead and sitting on a batch of eggs herself.

 

The rooster is officially named Fuckhead, courtesy of Paulina. Billy’s not budging on that one.

 

So yeah, chicks. On top of that, Billy’s like, graduating and stuff, which is nice, in like, a week, and there’s little green sprouts starting to peek out of all that painstakingly turned dirt. Jane takes a particular pleasure in helping him take care of his little garden— because it is a garden, it’s far too small to be anything else— more than happy to water everything now that Billy’s discovered the well about a hundred yards away past the treeline behind the house. How she manages to bring the bucket up by herself is something of a mystery to Billy, but she’s not so stupid she’ll fall in, so after the first couple of times, he lets her go on her own when she’s around to help out.

 

All in all, Billy’s living the good life. His garden’s growing, he’s almost done school, and he’s building up a healthy store of rabbit meat for when his little cache of money starts to run too low, along with a shit ton of fur that he’s thinking about maybe selling, if there’s a market for it.

 

He’ll go to the Farmer’s Market and ask Paulina about that. She seems like she’d know.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Paulina’s stall is in the same place it was last time, and the woman herself appears within seconds of Billy coming to a halt in front of her table, a sack he found in the basement slung over his shoulder.

 

“Bill, how are chickens?” she asks by way of greeting. “Are you hungry?”

 

“The chickens are fine,” he says. “And no, I’m okay. I ate before I came.”

 

“You are hungry,” Paulina says firmly, ignoring him. “Come, sit. We’ll talk. Weronika! Is there kielbasa left?”

 

“I think so!” Weronika calls from around the van.

 

“Bring it, please. We have guest!”

 

Paulina turns back to Billy, who has wisely decided to sit down, sack at his feet.

 

“It has been long time since you came,” she says. “Did something happen?”

 

“I—” Billy pauses uncertainly. “Not… really? I’ve been planting, and there are chicks, and my neighbor gave me a dog she found…”

 

Paulina claps her hands together, delighted.

 

“Many things have happened, then,” she says cheerfully. “It is good explanation for why you haven’t visited, and now Gene owes me twenty dollars.”

 

“... Okay?”

 

“Hey, Bill, how’s the farm?” Weronika says, breezing around the van with an orange plate of sausage and bread in her hands.

 

“Not really a farm, but it’s alright,” he says, taking the plate when it’s offered to him. “Thanks.”

 

“No problem.” Weronika looks at the sack. “What’cha bring us?”

 

“Rabbit fur,” Billy says, picking up a sausage with his fingers. “I was wondering if I could sell them here.”

 

“Rabbit fur is soft— good market for things made from rabbit,” Paulina says, looking interested. “What about meat?”

 

“Got a bunch of that, too— smoked.” The sausage isn’t bad, actually, and Billy’s normally not big on foods shaped like penises. He takes another bite, talking through his mouthful. “I left that stuff at home, but I figured I’d come by and see if anyone was interested. The skins are as whole as I could make them— I don’t know how to sew, so I can’t exactly do anything else with it.”

 

Paulina hums.

 

“Jack sells things you’ll need,” she says. “He always likes fur. If you talk to him, he can find you good clothes for summer work. Not too hot, and easy to clean.”

 

“That would be great, yeah.” That’s part of the reason Billy’s been looking to sell, really— it’s not really the weather to be running around in a wife beater, yet, and he’s pretty much already picked out what he could in the way of wearable clothes from the basement weeks ago. He’s only got two pairs of good, unstained jeans left, and he’s not about to waste them on gardening.

 

“Weronika will take you to him when you finish eating,” Paulina says with a nod. “Weronika used to fuck him, too.”

 

Weronika hums thoughtfully.

 

“Yeah, I think I did,” she agrees after a moment, cheeks slightly red. “How do you know that, though?”

 

“One day you will be mother, and you will know everything your babies do too,” Paulina says without missing a beat. “You are lucky I am such good mother. If you were someone else’s daughter, they’d call you slut.”

 

Billy chokes on his sausage. Weronika just rolls her mom.

 

“Yes, I know, Mama,” she says with a sigh. “I’m lucky to have a mother who understands the fluidity and freedom of feminine sexuality, and is willing to let her child explore that facet of herself without the fear of discovery. You’ve told me a thousand time, _ mother.” _

 

“She takes that tone when I have embarrassed her,” Paulina stage whispers to Billy, who’s trying very hard to act like he was born without ears. “Am I embarrassing?”

 

Billy swallows thickly around his food.

 

“Well, ma’am,” he says slowly, staring down at his plate. “I don’t know much about you being a mom, but I can tell you you’re embarrassing the hell out of me.”

 

Paulina lets out a booming laugh.

 

“It’s only because you are sheltered, Bill,” she says kindly, rubbing his shoulder as if to comfort him. “Start hanging out with us, and you will learn about the real life.”

 

Welp, Billy’s going to make a note to never hang around these hippies again.

 

Weronika, gently soul that she is, swoops in to save him from having to formulate a reply.

 

“C’mon, Bill, you can eat that on the way,” she says, reaching down to sling the sack he’d brought over one thin shoulder like it doesn’t way fifty pounds. “I’ll take you to Jack’s now, before he starts smoking.”

 

“Great,” Billy says, leaping to his feet. “Lead the way, Weronika. Thanks, Paulina.”

 

“No problem, Bill,” Paulina says, grinning broadly at their retreating backs. “Have fun!”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Sorry about that,” Weronika says when they’re out of earshot of her mother. “My mom’s kinda… out there.”

 

Billy shrugs.

 

“It’s fine,” he says, giving her an easy smile that’s only sixty percent fake. “She’s funny.”

 

“She certainly thinks she is,” Weronika says, rolling her eyes.

 

There’s a pause.

 

“... Does she really let you just fuck around?” he asks after a minute.

 

She shrugs.

 

“I don’t think of it as fucking around,” she says. “Everybody I have sex with or think about having sex has a real, emotional connection to me. Because me and my mom are open about how we feel, she usually has a pretty decent idea about who I might’ve slept with.” She pushes a lock of loose hair behind her ear. “What’s your mom like?”

 

“Dead,” Billy says. “But she was cool.”

 

“Sorry she’s dead, man,” Weronika says. “So’s my dad.”

 

Billy snorts.

 

“I wish I was that lucky,” he says. “I fucking hate him.”

 

“For good reasons or stupid teenager reasons?”

 

Billy’s lips pull up into a silent snarl. Weronika holds up her hands.

 

“Good reasons, got it,” she says. “It’s cool, man, I don’t judge— we’ve got a few kids on the property who are like, runaways? Mostly for dumb reasons, which is whatever, but there are a couple who…” she trails off, shaking her head. “Whatever. You’re fine, man. I don’t mean to pry.”

 

Billy nods, but he’s still stiff, tense and awkward in a way he wasn’t before, teetering on the edge of a screaming fit that he can’t let loose because Weronika is being  _ genuine,  _ and people aren’t genuine in his general direction very often.

 

He keeps his mouth shut.

 

“Jack’s right up the row,” Weronika says when she realizes he’s not going to answer. “He’ll get you everything you need.”

 

Everything? Well, Billy’s starting to hope the guy might have some weed.


	12. Chapter 12

 

Jack is a tall, gangly motherfucker who might be Latino under all that tye-dye and hair. He doesn’t look up when Weronika and Billy wander under the awning of his stall, intent on what looks like a string of beads.

 

Weronika.

 

“Hey, Jack.”

 

Still, the man doesn’t look up.

 

“Hey, Ronnie,” he says, words slow and drawling. “This Bill, then?”

 

“Yeah, this is Bill.”

 

Jack hums.

 

“Heard you’re up for a trade,” he says, like it isn’t weird that he knows that even though Billy literally only just told Paulina like, five minutes ago. “Rabbit skins?”

 

“... Yeah.”

 

Jack ties off the string  and pushes himself off of the work bench he’d been straddling, turning to regard Billy with dark, sleepy eyes.

 

There’s a moment where Billy doesn’t really know what to do or say, so he does and says nothing, frown deepening with each passing second.

 

“You’ve got demons,” Jack says finally, holding out his beads. “Here. It’ll keep ‘em away from your dreams, at least.”

 

Billy stares at the little bracelet, uncomprehending. Weronika nudges him, nodding pointedly at the… gift?

 

“Thanks?” he says, taking the bracelet. His pockets are too shallow to stuff out of sight, so instead he slips it onto his wrist. They don’t match his style, but whatever. He can take it off when he leaves.

 

Jack’s face breaks into a bright, easy smile.

 

“Awesome,” he says. “Let’s talk trade. I can tell already you’ve brought a lot of stuff to sort through.”

 

“Nah,” Billy says. “Just fur.”

 

Jack gives him an odd look but doesn’t argue.

 

“Dump ‘em out on that table,” he tells Weronika, pointing to what looks like the remains of a picnic table dragged under the awning. “We can sort through and figure out what we’ve got to work with.”

 

Weronika glances at Billy for permission, then obeys, quickly rearranging the skins so they lay flat on the table. The colors are all over the place, mostly shades of brown and gray with a few white, but he’s done a pretty good job preserving them, if he does say so himself.

 

Jack seems to agree.

 

“Beautiful, just beautiful,” he murmurs, running his hands over the furs in adoration. “You’re workin’ the old way, man, by hand. Can’t replicate these results anyway else.”

 

“What’s it worth?” Billy asks.

 

“More than you need, I think.” Jack hums. “Tell you what— I’ll give ya whatever you want for half. I’ll take another quarter of it it and make you some stuff you’ll need later on, and I’ll keep the other quarter as payment for the labor. How long you been at this, man?”

 

Billy shrugs.

 

“Like, two months?”

 

Jack lets out a low whistle.

 

“You’re a damn good trapper, Bill,” he says. “If you keep it up, you may as well get yourself a stall and start sellin’.”

 

“Probably oughta start a hutch, then,” Weronika says speculatively. “Don’t wanna kill of the existing population.”

 

“... Maybe.” Billy shakes his head. “For now, though, I think I’m cool with chickens around the place. Especially since I’m trying to go a few things.”

 

He is thinking about it, though. Actually, if he clears out a few of those trees out back…

 

“You’re growin’? What’cha growin’?”

 

Billy blinks.

 

“Uh, potatoes, onions, beets, cucumbers, cabbage, and peppers,” he says, listing them off. “I’ve got a couple of apple trees, too, and I planted some sunflowers.” He’s also planning on adding some more fruits, later, when the season’s right, so he can try his hand at jam.

 

“You’ll be needin’ stuff for picklin’, then,” Jack says, pushing himself to his feet. “And work clothes too, no doubt ‘bout that.”

 

He starts digging through a pile of boxes he has stacked against the van that’s parked along the back wall of the stall, tugging out little boxes of dried herbs and garlic and setting them on the table alongside the skins. Humming to himself, he moves around to the trunk, bringing out a large sack of fabric.

 

“Pick what’cha want out of there,” he says, tossing the bag at Billy without looking. “The cotton’s real thin, perfect for when you’re workin’ out under the summer sun. Easy to wash, too— dries in fifteen minutes on the line, on a good day. I got some denim ‘round here too… somewhere.”

 

He starts digging further into his trunk, leaving Billy to peer into the sack.

 

Everything is in shades of green or brown, along with the occasional cream or tye-dye. They’re all cut weird— sort of like long-sleeved v-necks with wide sleeves and lightly embroidered collars— but the seams are sturdy, and they smell clean, so Billy doesn’t really care. Just so long as his regular wardrobe stops shrinking in the wake of mud and chicken shit, really.

 

Picking out a handful of shirts that look like they’ll fit, Billy shoves them into the sack he’d brought with him while Weronika starts setting aside the herb boxes into an empty crate by one of the tables.

 

Billy catches a few pairs of jeans tossed his way, along with a few packs of underwear he tries not to grimace at and a pack of toothbrushes. Besides that comes a Ziploc bag of brownies that Billy tries not to grin at and another pack of socks.

 

“Here. Weronika said your place don’t have much in the way of entertainment,” Jack says, holding out what looks like a banjo for Billy to take. “You’ll need something to do besides masturbate and skin tiny animals.” 

 

Billy blinks. “No, I don’t think—”

 

“Take it. Everybody plays the goddamn guitar these days— I want a little variety in my forest folk.” He waits until Billy wraps his fingers around the neck of the banjo, then turns back to his wares.

 

“What’s your shoe size?” Jack asks as Billy ties off the bag.

 

“Nine, why?”

 

The sole of a boot smacks him square in the chest.

 

“You’ll need ‘em,” Jack says, turning to gather all the furs from the table. “Come back in two weeks, I’ll have a bit more for ya, alright?”

 

“I— sure, man, whatever you say.” Billy looks down at the bag. It was full before when it was just fur, but now… Now he’s going to have trouble getting it into his car. Plus the fucking banjo, which he’s still sort of confused by.

 

“Thanks for your help, Jack,” Weronika says. “We appreciate it.”

 

“No problem, Ronnie. Nice meetin’ ya, Bill.”

 

“Yeah.” Billy slings the sack over his shoulder while Weronika takes the crate. “See you around.”

 

Weronika walks back with him to his car to put away his trades.

 

“You said you were from Hawkins, right?” she says, eyeing the Camaro thoughtfully. “Your dad still live there?”

 

“What’s it matter?” Billy asks, good mood suddenly dropping.

 

“Well, I figure that car’s a little noticeable,” she says, nodding at his baby. “You might need something a little less conspicuous.”

 

“... I don’t want to sell it.”

 

“That’s okay. Have you got like, five hundred bucks?”

 

“... Not on me?” He’s got a little more than that, socked away in the root cellar, and a bank account he’s pretty sure his dad doesn’t know about it with about a grand of birthday and Christmas money from his grandparents he’s yet to touch.

 

“Ben’s buddy is looking to sell his truck,” she says. “If you want, I can get it for you. Johnny always liked me.”

 

Billy pauses.

 

“How much work?”

 

“None. It’s just old as shit.” Weronika shrugs. “He got himself a brand new Dodge a couple months ago and doesn’t think the pick-up’s worth scrapping. So he’s trying to sell it. You want it?”

 

Billy bites his lip. He really shouldn’t waste his money, but… his dad’s talking about the Camaro. It’s probably a good idea to try and drive it less.

 

“If you don’t want it, the commune’ll buy it anyway,” Weronika adds, unconcerned. “I can pick it up and you can stop by the ranch. If you want it, you’ll pay me back, and if you don’t, no worries.”

 

“... I can do that,” he says after a moment. It’s little to no risk, right? If he doesn’t want it, he won’t buy it.

 

“Cool. Stop by the Marigold Ranch in a week. It’ll be there.” Weronika gives him a sunny smile. “I’ll see ya then, Bill.”

 

“Yeah. See you.”

 

She wanders off, and it’s only then that Billy realizes she’s barefoot.

 

Hippies, man. They’re nice, but Jesus, are they weird.


	13. Chapter 13

 

Billy has lost control of his life since graduation. He’s bought a second car— an old Ford pickup that’s actually pretty nice if you ignore that it probably rolled off the factory floor in 1955— he’s got bones hanging from his ceiling on bits of twine (Paulina says bone meal’s a good fertilizer), he’s wearing a lot of shit he wouldn’t have been caught _ dead  _ in back home, he’s reading up on pickling methods for cucumbers and onions, there’s always dirt under his and he’s seriously starting to get good at fucking _ banjo. _

 

Also, Jane’s there and there are chickens and a dog.

 

Honestly, Billy’s too tired to really freak out about the little things, like the fact that he’s taken to wandering through the woods barefoot in search of mushrooms or that he’s got a copy of the Farmer’s Almanac on the new shelf he just put up, squished between _ Pride and Prejudice  _ and Huckleberry Finn. He can’t be bothered by the fact that he hasn’t actually talked to another human soul besides Max and Jane in like, a month, or that he’s switched from Jack Daniels to some kind of honey-flavored homebrew the hippies make because it’s cheaper (and tastier). He can’t really find it in himself to give a shit about any of that, because every moment that isn’t spent outside checking snares or watering plants or helping Jane with her reading or cooking or cleaning or running to the Farmer’s Market or the Marigold Ranch for something or other, he’s exhausted. Absolutely fucking exhausted.

 

(That’s the real reason he actually started messing around with the banjo. He can still feel productive without standing, focusing his eyes, or really thinking too hard. Once he figured out a few decent rhythms, it became easy to just close his eyes and run his fingers through the same notes over and over again.)

 

He’s fallen into something of a rhythm since school ended and he found himself with all kinds of free time. Wake up, feed the chickens and Cabron, make breakfast, check the traps, gut his kills, chop some wood, make lunch, go drive by his and Max’s new designated spot up the block from the Hargrove house and take her wherever if she happens to be there, head home, hang out with Jane, make dinner, send Jane home, sit on the porch and read or fiddle with the banjo until he either falls asleep or decides to go lay down.

 

It’s a very busy day, which is good, because Billy would lose it if he had too much time to do nothing, he really would.

 

Naturally, right when he gets himself into a good groove, some crazy shit happens to him.

  
  


*.*

  
  


He’s almost asleep when Cabron starts barking at the trees, his ragged growl deeper than Billy’s ever heard it. Jumping to his feet, he drops the banjo onto his rocking chair and reaches for his lantern, peering out into the darkness.

 

“Jane?” he calls, spotting a small, human-looking shape hobbling blindly along the edge of his yard.

 

He gets no response.

 

“Heel,” he mutters, and with a whimper, Cabron obeys, because Billy has put his back into making sure his idiot dog doesn’t wander too far away from him.

 

Grabbing the nearest potential weapon— a rake, in this case— Billy lifts the lantern higher and heads towards the shape.

 

“This is private property,” he calls out, like a liar. “You best leave now, or I’ll call the cops.” Like he’s got a phone, or something.

 

Still no response. Growling, he strides through his careful rows of cucumbers, rake at the ready. And then, he stops.

 

Because the person in his garden is Byers’ little brother, looking drawn and pale in his dirty pajamas as he stares up at Billy with a terrible, blank expression.

 

“Byers?” Billy asks, reaching out to touch the boy’s shoulder carefully. “You okay?”

 

Byers jerks back with a gasp, as though Billy had startled him.

 

“Wha—?” He blinks, confusion marring his narrow face. “Where am I? What’s happening?”

 

His face goes red worryingly quickly, his face screwing up with panic as tears start to form in the corners of his eyes.

 

“Hey! Hey, none of that— you’re fine, okay?” Billy says, dropping the rake and moving the lantern so Byers can see his face. “See, it’s just me. Max’s step-brother. You know me, right? You know who I am.”

 

Byers blinks up at him for a moment, expression clearing for just a moment as he focuses on Billy’s face.

 

“Billy?”

 

“Yeah, kid, it’s me,” he says, sighing. “You okay?”

 

Byers’ face tightens a little as he looks around.

 

“No?” He looks down at his feet, and it’s only then that Billy realizes that the kid’s barefoot and maybe a little bloody, which is not good.

 

“It’s alright,” Billy assures him. “I’ve got a place right over there. We’ll clean you up and I’ll drive you home, okay?”

 

Byers nods, and moves to take a step. When he hisses, Billy decides he’s better off just picking the kid up and carrying him— he looks light enough.

 

Jesus, the kid’s cold to the touch, even through his pajamas. Billy carries him to the house quickly, setting him on his bed and throwing the rabbit skin blanket Jack had made him over his shoulders before lighting the camping lantern he keeps for inside use and reaching for the bucket full of water that he’d been saving for his morning shower.

 

“I’m going to clean you up a little, okay?” he says, grabbing his washcloth from the edge of the stove as he drags the bucket towards the bed. “So your mom doesn’t lose it when she sees you.”

 

“She’s gonna lose it anyway,” Byers says miserably, stroking Cabron’s ears absently as the dog rests its head in the space between his thigh and the bed. “She’s gonna get so _ mad,  _ Billy.”

 

“... Is she gonna hit you?”

 

Billy doesn’t know why he asks. He just… does.

 

Byers jerks his chin, eyes sharp when they meet Billy’s.

 

“No. She’s not gonna hit me.”

 

Billy watches him a moment longer, then nods.

 

“Alright,” he says. “Then it’s not so bad. Hold still— this is gonna be cold.”

 

Byers’ twitches when Billy wraps a hand around his ankle, but holds still as Billy carefully washes away the dirt, mindful of the little cuts the kid’s collected on his midnight stroll. He doesn’t seem to care the water’s cold— he barely seems to feel it at all— but when he’s done, Billy rips open a new pack of socks anyway and goes to dump the water outside.

 

Toeing on the boots Jack had given him, he looks over at Byers’ shivering form before sighing and plucking the bomber jacket he’d found in the basement off the back of the kitchen chair.

 

“Here,” he says, offering Byers the jacket. “Put this on before you turn into a real zombie.”

 

Byers takes the jacket, shrugging off the blanket before sliding the jacket over his shoulders. It’s early July, yeah, but the nights are still cool, enough so that Billy feels justified when he pulls his worn denim jacket on over his bare arms.

 

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s go.”

 

Byers hesitates, looking down at Cabron.

 

Billy sighs.

 

“Cabron can come too,” he says. “If it makes you feel better.”

 

Jesus fuck, he’s gone soft. He wouldn’t be caught dead doing this kind of shit six months ago.

 

Whatever. It’s not like anyone’s around to see.

 

Byers nods awkwardly at Billy’s suggestion, shoulders curling inwards in an attempt to make himself smaller.

 

“Don’t do that,” Billy says crossly. “You’re a man. Straighten up and act like one.”

 

Byers shrinks even more at his words, and, fuck, he just sounded like his dad. Billy runs a hand through his overgrown hair tiredly.

 

“I didn’t mean that,” he mutters. “Just— listen, confidence is key, alright? If you look tough, people leave you alone. Don’t start going all limp just because I sound like an asshole, because guess what? I am, and I’m still trying to help you.”

 

Byers nods, not meeting his eyes.

 

“Sorry.”

 

Jesus fuck, this kid.

 

“Let’s get you back to your mom’s,” Billy says, rolling his eyes. “Come on— I’m not letting you get my new socks dirty.”

 

There’s not enough space for two people and a dog in the pickup, so Billy sucks it up and digs out the keys to the Camaro instead. It’s like, one o’clock in the morning, after all— Neil’s not driving around this late.

 

Byers is out within ten minutes, face pressed into an unusually calm Cabron’s fur. Because he doesn’t want to potentially wake the kid up and have to talk to him, he keeps the music low, driving as carefully as he can.

 

Byers is Max’s friend. She’d kill Billy if he didn’t help him out.


	14. Chapter 14

There’s a cop car parked outside of the Byers’ house. Specifically, the chief’s car, which is just… not great.

 

Unfortunately, Billy happens to be the person currently in charge of the reason the chief is at the Byers’ house, so no matter how much he feels like running, he doesn’t. He turns off the car, orders Cabron off of Byers’ lap, and when the kid doesn’t wake up, Billy sucks it up and pulls up into his arms again, ignoring the way Byers’ fingers tighten in the denim of his jacket as his head lolls into the junction of Billy’s neck and shoulder.

 

Just a few more steps, and Billy can give him to his mother and get the fuck out.

 

The door is almost ripped off its hinges with the force of a panicked Mrs. Byers when Billy knocks, her eyes wide and panicked as she stares at Billy, her son out cold against his shoulder.

 

“Will!”

 

Billy winces as Byers snuffles unhappily against the bare skin of his neck.

 

“He’s sleeping,” he tells her. “Passed out on the drive here.”

 

Mrs. Byers’ hands flutter awkwardly for a moment.

 

“Oh! Christ, sorry, I—”

 

“Joyce, who is it?”

 

Chief Hopper looms in the doorway like a fucking bear, huge and grizzled and pissed off. Billy sort of wants to drop the kid and run away, except Byers has got a pretty good grip on his jacket now, and is probably more pretending to sleep than actually sleeping.

 

The chief stares at Billy. Billy stares back, hand fisted in the back of Byers’ borrowed jacket in a white-knuckled grip. After a moment, the chief steps back

 

“Put him down on the couch,” he orders, pointing. “Then come sit down. I need to ask you a few questions.”

 

Billy swallows.

 

“Cabron,” he mutters over his shoulder. “Come!”

 

The dog canters in, tongue lolling and tail wagging as he goes to introduce himself to Mrs. Byers, who rubs his ears more out of reflex than anything, judging by the confused look on her face.

 

“Can’t leave him outside,” he says by way of explanation as he slips carefully past the chief’s giant frame. “He’s too stupid to stay put—” He stops, mouth snapping shut with a click when he realizes that the chief and Mrs. Byers aren’t alone. Jonathan Byers is standing in the middle of the living room, his girlfriend Wheeler sitting stiffly in an armchair in the corner.

 

Yeah, no. Fuck this. Billy drops the little Byers on the couch as carefully as he can and turns on his heel, aiming for the door.

 

“Jonathan, Nancy, we need a minute.” The chief’s talking to them, but his eyes are fixed on Billy, pinning him in place.

 

There’s a pause, and then some shuffling behind him as Wheeler and Byers take their sweet time to make their exit. Then, it’s just Billy, Mrs. Byers, the chief, and Cabron, who’s abandoned him in favor of hopping onto the couch with the little Byers and making himself comfortable, fluffy tail wagging as he noses into the space between the kid’s shoulder and the back of the couch.

 

Traitor.

 

“Sit,” the chief grunts, waving to one of the kitchen chairs.

 

Billy knows that tone. He sits.

 

Mrs. Byers’ lips pinch, eyes flashing as they dart between Billy and the chief.

 

“You want a drink, Billy?” She asks, words honey sweet and pointed as she glares at the chief.

 

“No, ma’am,” Billy says, too nervous under cop eyes to flash her the smile he usually uses on moms. “Thank you, ma’am.”

 

The chief sighs.

 

“Don’t make that face,” he says, looking annoyed. “You’ve been in Hawkins long enough to know why I want to know how you found him.”

 

And yeah, Billy isn’t an idiot, but he can’t help the stiff line of his shoulders or the flat expression he knows he’s wearing, as carefully blank as time and practice can make it.

 

“In the woods,” Billy says. “I found him in the woods, sir.”

 

“What was he doing?”

 

“ I think he was sleepwalking or something. He was kind of wei— he was a little out of it, sir.”

 

Don’t call the kid weird in front of his mom. Clearly she’s friends with the chief, judging by the way they now appear to be attempting telepathic communication. Be polite and helpful and get the fuck out.

 

The chief lets out a small, annoyed grunt, rubbing at his beard.

 

“And what were _ you  _ doing in the woods?” he asks, brow furrowed in such a way that just _ dares  _ Billy to lie to him.

 

Which Billy is going to do, because fuck if he’s going to tell a cop he’s living in a shack in the woods. He’s got weed and shine in that place, and that’s _ without  _ the squatting.

 

“Walking my dog, sir,” Billy says promptly. “Figure no one’ll mind if he shits in the woods.”

 

The chief doesn’t believe him, that’s obvious the minute Billy’s excuse comes out of his mouth.

 

“Cabron likes the little Byers,” he continues, rubbing his wrist nervously. “He started barking and stuff, and then he ran off. I guess he caught his scent, or something.”

 

Billy looks down at the table, suddenly very interested in the crumbs stuck in the cracks of the laminate.

 

A small, cool hand touches his shoulder, making him jump, head jerking up to look up into Mrs. Byers’ quietly grateful face.

 

“Thank you for bringing him home, Billy,” she says, earnest and sweet.

 

Billy swallows, carefully shrugging off her touch.

 

“He’s Max’s friend, ma’am,” he says, looking back at the table. “She’d be pretty unhappy with me if I didn’t.”

 

There’s a beat of silence, then another sigh from the chief.

 

“Alright,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “You best head home, Hargrove. It’s late.”

 

Billy’s on his feet so fast he bumps the table, hand already in his pocket as he digs for his keys.

 

“Have a nice night, ma’am,” he says, nodding to Mrs. Byers. “Chief.”

 

Cabron hops off the couch as soon as Billy starts moving, butting his head against the back of his knee.

 

Billy isn’t leaving the shack for a fucking week, minimum. He’s got enough Kraft Mac ‘n’ Cheese until then.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, geez, I totally missed a whole chunk of stuff on this chapter when I was moving it from my docs to here! Sorry, guys, and thanks to those of you who brought it to my attention! I'm reposting the chapter with the missing piece, because I am an idiot.

It’s been two weeks since he found the little Byers in the woods, and everything’s fine. Like,  _ perfect, _ fine. The sun’s been shining, the chickens are being their usual, stupid selves, and his cucumbers are starting to look like real cucumbers, which is _ awesome. _ He’ll have to start picking them, soon.

 

Also? His sunflowers bloomed. Thanks to a cheap little Polaroid Jane brought over three days into his self-imposed house arrest, he’s now got a nice picture or two of her and Cabron and him, all squished together to fit in the shot with Jane holding a little bouquet of sunny yellow petals in the middle. Billy took her special to the Farmer’s Market to buy a frame for one of the better ones from Jack, setting it in place of pride on the shelf next to his books.

 

Yeah, he took her to the Farmer’s Market, which probably could be considered kidnapping if her dad went looking for her, but he got her back to the cabin before dark, so it’s mostly okay, right? Probably not, considering what almost definitely could have happened with Byers.

 

So yeah, everything’s nice. Jack even gave him some actual _ money  _ this last visit to go along with the frame, since Billy brought some more skins, so he decided to be indulgent and buy some more books and even a few new tapes from the record store the next town over, to give himself a little variety and to further Jane’s musical education, because he’s good like that.

 

Naturally, it’s another, idyllic day like the ones Billy’s just starting to get used to when everything gets shattered with a blunt object, like maybe a nail-riddled baseball bat.

 

Jane’s been looking for mushrooms, mostly because _ Billy’s  _ been looking for mushrooms, and is leading him towards what she thinks might be a nice patch of edible ones when a buck— a fucking _ buck— _ charges through the trees, eyes wild and aiming directly for them.

 

Billy doesn’t think about it, leaping in front of Jane with his arms spread wide and his eyes wide open and—

 

And the buck is hoisted into the air by nothing at all, head jerking suddenly as its neck snaps with a wet crack. It hovers there for a moment, a good foot off the ground, before dropping in a pile.

 

“Um.” Billy blinks. “Um.”

 

Jane’s little hand finds his, tugging at his thumb like she’s five and not fifteen.

 

“Okay?” she asks, looking up at him with wide, guarded eyes.

 

“... You saw that, right?” he asks, feeling a little faint.

 

Jane’s mouth twists uncertainly.

 

“Yes.” She pauses, as if steeling herself. “That was… me.”

 

Billy stares dumbly. He… are there words for that?

 

He opens his mouth before he can really process what it is he wants to say.

 

“So that’s how you shoveled all that snow,” is what comes out. Which is better than fainting or something, which would just be embarrassing.

 

“... Yes.”

 

She looks nervous, he realizes distantly. Of his reaction? Well, he supposes that killing a giant deer with magic could be a little off-putting to most. He, for one, is incredibly put off— except this is also Jane, and he really doesn’t like her worried face.

 

“Huh.” Billy looks over at the buck, then back at her. He probably shouldn’t have left his cigarettes at home. “Can you walk on water, too?”

 

Her nose crinkles, her brow furrowing with confusion.

 

“What?”

 

“Y’know. Like Jesus.” Billy hums, aiming for nonchalant and almost hitting it. “I was raised Catholic, Chickie, y’know? Magic’s not that far out of the realm of possibility, considering I believe in a dude who supposedly returned from the dead and then ascended into heaven, physical form included.”

 

The confused face stays, but Billy’s on slightly firmer ground here, since it’s sort of a thing that Jane doesn’t know stuff that literally _ everybody  _ else knows.

 

“It’s a religion,” Billy says. “My mom’s religion. If you want, I’ll explain it to you— but first…” He turns back to the buck. “I figure I can make use of this guy. Waste not, want not, and all that jazz.”

 

Jane hums, thoughtfully, then nods.

 

“I got it,” she says, raising a hand. Just like that, the buck is hoisted into the air again, floating ominously behind her as she turns back towards the house and starts walking.

 

Well, alright then. Billy can always panic later, when Jane’s safe at home and Billy’s alone.

 

He’ll pencil the meltdown in for midnight, maybe even eleven-thirty, depending on his drinking.

 

Yeah. That’s a good plan.

  
  


*.*

  
  


He never does get around to losing his shit. After all, he has to skin and gut the buck (which is sort of like skinning a rabbit except it’s decidedly bigger and also has hooves), and the concept of Jesus is actually a really big conversation to have with anybody, let alone a sheltered teenaged girl with no religious foundation at all, so. They end up eating their dinner on the front porch, Billy gesticulating wildly with his tin fork as he explains the story of Lazarus, the wedding in Cana, the money changers in the temple. Jane soaks it all up, eyes wide with rapt attention as he tells her a story about a man who could do things no one else could do.

 

They’re both distracted, and Cabron’s fast asleep in the shade of the cabin, snuffling quietly into his bushy tail. They don’t notice the stranger wandering up the path until his shadow falls between them.

 

Billy’s up in an instant, not even bothering to look who it is in his haste to pull Jane out of harm’s way until their backs are pressed against the wall.

 

“Jesus, kid, calm down.” Chief Hopper eyes him warily, and even though he’s dressed in normal clothes— blue jeans and a ragged t-shirt— Billy can’t help but notice the way the man’s hand strays towards his belt, where his gun normally would be clipped to his person.

 

His grip on Jane’s arm tightens.

 

“It’s okay, Bill,” Jane says, patting his hand gently like she knows what the fuck she’s talking about. “That’s Jim— my dad.”

 

Hopper looks just about as uncomfortable as Billy is shocked, blond head twisting sharply to stare down at the little girl.

 

“Are you fucking _ serious?” _ he demands, dropping her arm like it burns.

 

“Watch your mouth, Hargrove,” Hopper snaps.

 

“Don’t be mean to him, Jim,” Jane says sharply, turning her glare on the chief. “Bill’s my friend. You can’t be mean to my friends.”

 

Hopper’s gaze turns incredulous.

 

“Seriously?” He looks between Billy and Jane.  _ “He’s  _ the new friend you’ve been talking about?”

 

Jane nods firmly, chin jutting out in a mulish expression.

 

“Bill’s nice,” she says. “Bill has chickens and sunflowers and a puppy and he helps me with my reading and he tried to save me from a deer, even if I stopped it anyway.”

 

The Chief has a magic foster daughter. The Chief has a magic foster daughter who’s been spending her days helping Billy clean out the chicken coop and listening to Judas Priest tapes. Billy has the shittiest luck in the entire universe.

 

“This is the same guy that beat Steve’s face in, what do you mean— wait, a deer? What happened with the deer? When—”

 

“Today,” Jane says smugly. “One of the boy ones charged at us and Billy jumped in front of me. I killed it.”

 

The Chief’s face goes dangerously blank.

 

“You killed it,” he repeats carefully. “I assume by…”

 

Jane nods.

 

“Bill’s not afraid,” she says. “Bill says he knows about people like me. He’s been telling me about someone named Jesus, who could walk on water and turn water to wine and stuff.”

 

Billy winces as the Chief turns to look at him, disbelief written all over his face.

 

“Um.” Good job, Billy. Very articulate.

 

Nobody talks for a second, then two. Then, Jane tugs at Billy’s sleeve.

 

“Smokehouse,” she reminds him, because right, he’s drying out that buck, now, and that means checking the temperature every now and again.

 

“... Yeah.” Carefully, Billy sidles over to the steps, careful to keep himself out of arm’s reach of the Chief. The guy may be big, but Billy’s fast when he needs to be. If he’s gotta run, he probably can make it into the woods before the Chief catches up with him and beats his ass for corrupting his kid.

 

The Chief doesn’t move, unnaturally still until Billy is safely on his way to the smokehouse. With any luck, the Chief might just decide to take Jane home, and leave Billy in peace with his shack in the woods.

 

“Come see, Jim. Bill’s gonna keep the skull.”

 

Goddammit, Jane.

 

Billy doesn’t argue, though, when Jane goes to follow him, the Chief wordlessly trailing after her, likely struck dumb by just how ridiculous this whole situation is. Billy certainly is, after all, and he’s the guy who lives in a shack.

 

If it’s hot outside, it’s absolute hell in the smokehouse. Billy is damp within minutes, sweat trickling down the back of his neck as he moves from the thermometer nailed to the nearest post and the pile of wood he keeps on hand to feed the fire. The Chief stays utterly silent as Billy works, sharp eyes moving between Billy, Jane, and the meat hanging in long strips from the wooden rods high above their heads. He seems content to just watch, though, as Jane prods at the burning logs with a poker, eyeing the thermometer before nodding to herself and setting it back against the wall.

 

Billy can’t stand it. He wants to get this over with, to get the Chief’s verdict so he can pack his shit and _ go.  _ Marigold Ranch would probably take him, right? The hippies seem to like him.

 

“I’ve got stuff left from dinner,” he says, not meeting Hopper’s eye. “If you’re hungry.”

 

The Chief gives him a long, unreadable look.

 

“I could eat,” he says after a moment.

 

Well. Okay then.

  
  


*.*

  
  


The Chief takes up too much space in the cabin. He’s already a big guy— compared to Billy, at least, who’s long since finished his growing at five foot eight and slender no matter how hard he’s worked at bulking up over the years— but in the cabin, he can’t even straighten up all the way without hitting his head on a beam. Along with Billy and Jane— and Cabron, who managed to shoulder his way into the house before Billy could snap the door shut— the shack is almost suffocatingly small, cramped in a way it’s never seemed before.

 

Billy made rabbit stew over noodles, on this particular evening, mostly so he could try Paulina’s noodle recipe himself. It mostly turned out okay— some of the noodles are a little deformed-looking, but they’re edible, and anyway, the stew covers most of how ugly they are.

 

After the first bite, the Chief practically inhales his food, which is oddly satisfying for Billy to see. He’s never been much of a cook— his dad always made sure there was a woman around to take care of that sort of thing, even before Susan— but with a lot of time and limited ingredients to work with, Billy’s managed to get a handle on this sort of thing. That, along with a can of Coke that Billy’s been saving in a secondhand cooler in the basement, seems to be enough to make the guy relax, just a little bit. Just enough that Billy’s heart doesn’t pound quite so hard, and he can actually take the seat opposite from the guy rather than attempt to share his bed with Jane and Cabron.

 

“So,” Hopper starts after Billy takes the plate away and pulls his water bucket up between his legs to start washing up. “You’ve been here for a while.”

 

Billy swallows, eyes intent on his cleaning.

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

The Chief snorts.

 

“Besides the crops, the chickens, and the fact that Jane’s been talking about you for months?” He takes a sip of his soda. “Be honest— how long have you been staying here?”

 

Billy thinks about lying. Then he doesn’t.

 

“I started staying here in January,” he admits quietly, dunking the dish rag into the water before scrubbing at a particularly nasty grease spot. “Pretty much moved in by May.”

 

Hopper hums.

 

“That’s a long time,” he says. “There’s no electricity here. Or plumbing.”

 

“I figured it out.”

 

“I can see that.”

 

Billy sets the clean dish on the stove to dry, then moves to the next one.

 

“How’d you find us?” he can’t help but ask. “Did Jane—?”

 

The Chief shakes his head.

 

“No, that’d be too easy.” He leans back in his chair, idly spinning the can in a large hand. “That jacket, the one you let Will Byers borrow— I got a good look at it, today. It was my father’s.”

 

Billy goes very, very still, knuckles white where he grips the rag.

 

Oh, fuck no.

 

“Technically, this is an extension of the Hopper property,” the Chief continues, ignoring Billy’s sudden stiffness. “I spent the first three years of my life in this place, before my dad finally got around to buying a proper house down in Hawkins. My grandfather let him use it after he got married— there were six other Hopper boys already taking up space at my grandfather’s lodge, and I was already on the way, so…” Hopper trails off with a shrug.

 

“I can be gone in an hour,” Billy says numbly. “I can pack up and be gone in an hour.”

 

“Who said anything about you leaving?” Hopper asks. “As far as I can tell, your little wild man shtick has kept you out of trouble— you haven’t been a problem for the last six months, as far as the law is concerned.”

 

Wait, what?

 

“If you’re fine with living without TV, you’re free to stick around,” Hopper says. “Keep doing what you’re doing, don’t cause any problems, and I’ll even keep it a secret for you. All you owe me is rent.”

 

“... I don’t make money doing this, Chief.”

 

“I don’t mean money.” Hopper tilts his head back, eyes intent on Billy who’s yet to look away from the dishes. “You’ve been helping Jane with her reading and math. Keep doing that, and we’re square.”

 

Billy doesn’t say anything, too busy processing. The Chief seems to understand, though. He lets the quiet settle, taking his time to light a cigarette and crack the window by his elbow.

 

“Jane,” he says after a moment, voice broaching no argument. “Can you give— _ Bill  _ and me a minute?”

 

Jane gives the Chief a long stare before pushing herself to her feet, shuffling over to Billy with Cabron at her heels.

 

“He won’t hurt you,” she promises, touching Billy’s shoulder gently. “And even if he wanted to, it’s okay. I’m here.”

 

If she were anyone else, Billy would snarl at the implication that this pipsqueak could protect him. Hell, if it were this morning he’d be snapping. But he watched her break a buck’s neck with her mind, so he’s inclined to trust her in that respect.

 

He gives her a curt nod, and with a last, lingering smile, Jane slips out of the cabin, shutting the door quietly behind her.


	16. Chapter 16

Billy, as a rule, does not like being alone with big men who decidedly don’t like or respect him. Chief Hopper is too old to respect a little shit like Billy, and he’s thrown him in the back of a police car one too many times to particularly like him.

 

Suffice to say, Billy is tense, if only to stop himself from shaking.

 

“Max told me you weren’t living with her anymore.”

 

Billy startles badly and immediately hates himself, and also Max. What the fuck is she _ doing,  _ talking to a cop about him?

 

“She’s friends with Jane,” Hopper says, apparently reading something in Billy’s expression. “Sleeps over sometimes. She told me so that the next time I picked you up, I wouldn’t call your dad.”

 

… Oh. Well. That’s… nice of her.

 

“Thing is,” Hopper continues, almost idly. “I never called your dad when I picked you up, not after that first time, because Steve told me what you looked like when you showed up for class on Monday.”

 

Billy remembers that first time. Half his face had been purple when he showed up to school the next day, and his ribs had definitely been bruised. He’d played it off as a bad fight when the coach had asked about it, but he’d felt Harrington’s stare all through practice, eyes following him as he limped back and forth between the bench and the water cooler.

 

Nobody had said anything, not even Harrington, but Billy knew better. There were…  _ suspicions, _ after that.

 

Apparently he’s been quiet for too long, because Hopper sighs.

 

“If you don’t wanna say anything, that’s fine,” Hopper says. “I know, you know, and that’s all that matters. But if he comes after you here, just let me know— after all, he’s trespassing on private property, _ my  _ private property, and I’ve got far more pull than some rat-faced little draft-dodger.”

 

_ That  _ gets Billy’s attention.

 

“Draft-dodger?” he asks, eyes wide when he looks at Hopper. “But he has all these stories—”

 

“Bullshit,” Hopper says firmly, a twinkle in his dark eyes. “I know people, kid, and when your dad pinged on my radar, I had him looked into. He legged it to Canada when his number came up.”

 

That motherfucker. That motherfucking, dirty, rotten, liar. All those years he spent scaring Billy half to death with stories about gutting gooks in the jungles… all of it was complete and utter horseshit.

 

Billy pictures his father’s face when he finds out Billy knows— not that he ever will, Billy’s never stepping foot in that man’s house again— and can’t help the little giggle that escapes. If the Chief ever said anything…

 

Billy can only hope he’ll be there to witness it.

 

“I thought you’d like that,” Hopper says, cracking a smile of his own. “You’re a vindictive little shit, aren’t you?”

 

He’s amused, easy and unthreatening in his easy splay across the table, so Billy feels mostly okay about giving him a small, shit-eating smirk in return.

 

“Damn right, sir,” he agrees.

 

Hopper huffs a laugh then, rolling his eyes and pushing himself to his feet.

 

“I’m going to take Jane home, now,” he says. “She’ll be by again tomorrow, probably.”

 

Billy doesn’t quite know what to do with that, so he just nods, his expression dimming.

 

Hopper stares at him a moment longer, then sighs, pushing himself to his feet.

 

“Food was good,” he says. “Good enough I’m not going to get on you for hunting out of season.  Just be careful, alright? That sort of shit gets taken seriously around here.”

 

He pats Billy bracingly on the shoulder, ignoring the way he stiffens, and slips out the door, just like that.

  
  


*.*

  
  


The next day, Jane shows up like nothing ever happened. She plays with Cabron, helps him pick cucumbers, and reads him the first three chapters of Sense and Sensibility. It’s normal, comfortingly so, and Billy can almost dismiss yesterday’s events away as a bad dream right up until the moment gravel grinds under tires and a bicycle appears at the top of the driveway.

 

It’s Will Byers, uncharacteristically alone and looking uncomfortable when Billy turns to look.

 

“I— no one’s home,” he says in a rush. “I— I just thought— Hop said Jane comes over sometimes—”

 

“Will,” Jane says warmly, setting down her little basket half full of onions to go and hug him. “You okay?”

 

Will doesn’t answer, still staring at Billy, half-hopeful, half-scared.

 

Billy has been up since four-thirty in the morning. He’s too tired to tell the kid to fuck off.

 

“Grab a basket, Zombie,” he says instead. “You can help Jane collect eggs while I finish up with the onions.” He turns away, then, going back to his onions, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t catch the relief on the kid’s face or the satisfaction in Jane’s.

 

He supposes he can understand. After all, the kid got kidnapped before— he’s probably nervous about being alone, nowadays. Rumor has it he was taken from his mom’s house, too, which makes Billy wonder for a second why they haven’t moved before he remembers the fact that Mrs. Byers is almost definitely from the same kind of house as Billy is, judging by her house and her tired eyes and her worn face.

 

Poor people take care of poor people. That’s always been the way of it. So Billy doesn’t complain that Will somehow got directions back to his secret shack in the woods and gets back to fucking work.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Will eats like a bird, with small bites and slow, methodical chewing. It’s almost fascinating to watch, and Billy does, settled on the porch step while Jane practices her braiding. She’s gentle on his hair, fingers carding delicately through overgrown curls as she tries her very best to tame them it into a single, neat braid down his back. He’s a little stoned, he’s full, and his company’s blessedly quiet, allowing him to just relax and enjoy the steadily cooling afternoon.

 

It’s so perfect, in fact, that Billy doesn’t notice when his eyes slip shut and he slumps against the the rail, not until he wakes up half an hour later to the sounds of clattering dishes and water.

 

Opening his eyes and stretching with a long groan, he turns to see Will and Jane huddled around the dish bucket, Will holding a soapy rag and Jane holding a dry one as they assembly-line the entire dishwashing experience.

 

Well, that’s awful sweet of them.

 

Pushing himself to his feet, Billy casts around for Cabron, and when he doesn’t find him, lets out a long, piercing whistle that startles both of the kids, much to Billy’s amusement. Cabron doesn’t come right away, though, which is strange— it’s a full five minutes before he comes trotting back onto the property, tongue lolling as he peers behind him, tail wagging every time he catches sight of—

 

Of Chief Hopper. Of course.

 

He’s not in uniform today, either, just a wife beater and jeans, and he looks like he wants to laugh when he meets Billy’s eyes.

 

“Evenin’, Bill,” he draws, navigating carefully between the vegetable beds. “You look nice.”

 

Instinctively, Billy reaches up to touch his hair, and finds that Jane’s braid feels a little more French than he would like.

 

Well, whatever.

 

“Joyce called me, asking if I knew where Will was,” he says when he gets closer, turning to arch an eyebrow at Will. “You left her a note that said you were going to see Jane.”

 

Will looks down, evidently embarrassed.

 

“I didn’t lie,” he mumbles.

 

Hopper sighs.

 

“Not the point, kid.” He turns back to Billy. “If he’s going to be hanging around with you, his mom needs to know where you live. You understand that, right?”

 

Billy stiffens.

 

“I— he just showed up,” he says, crossing his arms. “I’m not  _ Harrington,  _ I don’t invite freshmen to hang at my place.”

 

“You don’t tell them to go away, either.” Hopper frowns at him a moment, then reaches for his cigarettes, lighting one up before continuing.

 

“Listen, Bill,” he says. “I won’t say that I trust you, because I don’t. You’re an asshole, and you’re mean. But, it’s the summer, and Joyce works for a living. So does Jonathan. We’d all prefer if there was someone to keep an eye on the kids— bad shit happens when we leave them alone for too long.

 

“I’ll give you thirty bucks a week to let Jane and Will hang around here, plus whatever I pick up shaking down the other troublemakers in town.” Hopper gives him a wry smile. “Only condition is you give Joyce your address.”

 

Billy blinks.

 

“Whatever you pick up?” he asks suspiciously. “You mean—”

 

“Beer, pot, and cigarettes,” Hopper says. “I’m not giving you any of the hard stuff.”

 

Not that there is much in the way of hard stuff in Hawkins, but…

 

That’s a pretty good deal, actually.

 

“Fine,” Billy says. “But only her. Nobody else.”

 

“We can work with that.” He looks over at Will. “You’ve got your radio, right?”

 

Will nods, still not meeting anyone’s eyes, and Jane moves to grab his bag, pulling out the radio before handing it to Hopper.

 

He fiddles with the controls for a minute, then brings it to his mouth.

 

“Joyce, come on up.”

 

There’s a pause, and then, the sound of a car making its way up the driveway filters up the hill and the chief’s car pulls up into the driveway, Mrs. Byers in the front seat. The engine cuts out, and she hops out of the car, looking around the little garden curiously.

 

“Wow,” she says, eyes wide. “I wasn’t expecting…” she trails off, looking at Billy. “This place is yours?”

 

“... Yeah.” Billy shifts, glancing at Will over his shoulder. The boy hasn’t moved, head still bowed and arms crossed.

 

“Zombie,” he says sharply. “Go tell your mom you’re fine, for God’s sake.”

 

He feels more than sees Hopper stiffen beside him, and realizes, quite suddenly, that he’s within arm’s reach. He jumps away, causing chickens to scatter in his effort to put distance between them.

 

“Nickname,” Jane says when Billy locks cautious eyes on the chief. “Bill calls me Chickie.”

 

“Not a very nice one, Jane,” Hopper says flatly.

 

“It’s okay,” Will pipes up. “It’s different when he says it.”

 

Joyce’s eyes dart between Billy, Hopper, and her son, puzzling out something Billy doesn’t care to understand. Then, she smiles.

 

“It’s alright, Jim,” she says. “We can talk about it later. Will, we should get going— it’s late, and Jonathan’s going to be home, soon.”

 

Will nods and collects his bag, shoving the radio inside along with whatever else he brought when Hopper hands it to him. Then, he looks at Billy.

 

“Thanks, Bill,” he says. “For letting me stay.”

 

“... I needed the extra hand,” Billy says after a moment. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

“Jane, let’s go,” Hopper says, jerking his head towards the car. “You can come by tomorrow.”

 

“Okay.” Jane drops her rag and bounces over to Billy, taking care to squeeze him around the middle before letting go. “See you tomorrow, Bill.”

 

He pats her head carefully, eyes still glued to Hopper.

 

“Yeah, Jane. See ya.”

 

They pack into the truck after that and drive away, leaving Billy alone again. It was a good day, he thinks, right up until parents came crashing into the picture.

 

They always screw everything up.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I specifically updated this because I know @delirious-lycan on tumblr has wanted me to update for forever and I'm on a good writing kick so here! New chapter! Happy New Year!

 

“Has anybody told you that is not dog?” Paulina asks when Billy shows up at her booth on a sunny Sunday morning.

 

Billy blinks, looking between her and Cabron.

 

“Sure he’s a dog,” he says. “He’s got a dog face.”

 

Paulina arches an unimpressed eyebrow.

 

“You lived in city before coming to Hawkins, yes?” she asks. “That is why you are stupid. It’s okay, it’s not your fault. Come, eat something, tell me about how life is going.”

 

Billy lets himself be hustled behind her stall and into a seat, and within seconds there’s a plate of meat and potatoes in his hands.

 

Paulina’s easy to talk to. She’s genuinely interested in hearing about the chickens, or how Jane’s developed an interest in the types of trees growing on the property, or how Billy’s been thinking about looking into deer-hunting. She cares, and she’s helpful, too— she’s always got a word of advice or a person for Billy to talk to if she doesn’t know the answer herself.

 

She’s like the mom he never got a chance to have. Weronika’s damn lucky.

 

His days at the market are easy and friendly, now. He knows the vendors by name, waves hello to Ben with the secondhand furniture and Linda with the pies and Gene the Beekeeper as he passes by and trades jerky and fur for cheese and bread and whatever else he needs that week. People know him, but they don’t know him like anyone else— as far as the hippies at the Farmer’s Market are concerned, Billy’s just another fucked up kid who’s trying his best, just like they are, and sometimes, he can even be called nice. He’s never really had that before, not with anyone, and yet here he is, surrounded by people who treat him like he’s no different from anyone else.

 

That’s… nice.

 

He’s been playing with the idea of maybe getting a cow, but… no. It’s too expensive, they need too much space, and honestly, Billy doesn’t want to deal with a cow on top of everything else. Paulina, of course, agrees.

 

“Cows stink, and they are stupid,” she says, shaking her head as she counts out a dozen eggs for a tired-looking soccer mom. “No, if you want milk, get goat— it’s not the same, but it is easier.”

 

“A goat?” Billy hums. “Maybe, but—”

 

“Boy.”

 

Billy’s blood runs cold and his head jerks up to meet familiar, hard eyes.

 

“Dad?”

 

Neil smiles meanly down at Billy, and Billy can feel him calculating his next words as he takes in Billy’s overgrown curls, his muddy, chicken shit-stained jeans, and his company.

 

“I’ve been wondering where you’ve gotten to, Billy,” Neil says, each word measured and careful. “You left without a word, you know— Susan and I were worried.”

 

Susan certainly looks worried now, hovering over Neil’s shoulder like that with a basket hanging from her arm.

 

“You are Bill’s father?” Paulina says, eyes narrowed as she looks between Billy and Neil.

 

“Bill?” Neil arches an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re quite the big man, son. Must be, now that you’re out on your own.”

 

Billy swallows.

 

“Just taking responsibility, sir,” he says, and he doesn’t look away, no matter how much he wants to.

 

Neil looks like he wants to say something else, but before he can open his mouth, a shadow appears over his shoulder.

 

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Gene says pleasantly as Neil turns to look. Billy forgets how big the guy actually is, sometimes— he only ever really sees him sitting behind the honey table— but standing next to his father, Gene seems even bigger, pushing another six inches of height on Neil as he stares down at him, looking perfectly genial and a little like a rainbow Gandalf. “But if you can spare Bill for a minute, Paulina, I could use a hand unloading the van.”

 

“Of course, Gene— I was just about to send him along to help, anyway.” Paulina takes Billy’s plate as she speaks, handing it off to Weronika without ever taking her gaze off Neil. “Can I help you with any purchases, sir?”

 

“Bill, let’s go,” Gene says, and there’s a firmness to his tone that Billy’s never heard him use before. Mechanically, he gets out of his chair.

 

“Nice to see you, Susan,” he mutters, meeting her eyes. She gives him a small, timid smile, but doesn’t answer, busying herself instead with picking out a carton of eggs. “You too, Dad.”

 

“You should stop by for dinner sometime, son,” Neil says, and his smile tells Billy it’s an order. “After all, it seems like we’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

 

Billy nods numbly.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

There’s a beat, and then, Gene turns away.

 

“C’mon, Bill,” he calls over his shoulder. “Work waits for no man.”

 

Billy goes, of course he does. The guy’s giving him an easy way out of this awkward stand-off.

 

He doesn’t realize that Gene isn’t taking him back to the honey table until they’re standing in front of Jack’s tent. He frowns at Gene, but the man only shakes his head, pulling back the flap and gesturing for him to go inside, which he does.

 

Jack’s hunched over what looks like half of a pocket watch, tweezers in one hand and a flashlight in the other. He looks up when the flap closes behind them, brow furrowed with confusion and then concern when he sees Billy.

 

“Bill, are you okay?” he asks, dropping his tools and pushing himself to his feet. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

 

Billy doesn’t— he doesn’t know what’s happening. He feels lightheaded, his stomach feels cold and heavy and knotted, and he thinks his hands are shaking. His knees begin to buckle, and he would’ve eaten dirt if Gene didn’t catch him.

 

“Hey, now, no need for that,” Gene says, shifting his grip until he can deposit Billy safely on Jack’s bench. “There’s no need, you’re alright.”

 

“What happened?” Jack asks, pressing the back of a dirty hand against Billy’s forehead. “Bill, are you sick?”

 

Billy shakes his head, running a hand over his face angrily.

 

“I’m fine, Jack,” he croaks. “I’m fuckin’ _ fine.” _

 

“His dad showed up at Paulina’s table,” Gene says. “Piece of shit if I’ve ever seen one, and I mean—  _ Jesus.”  _ He shakes his head. “Can he hide with you for a little bit? Until the asshole’s gone, I mean.”

 

“Yeah, of course.” Jack looks down at Billy. “You stay as long as you need.”

 

Billy huffs.

 

“I don’t need to hide, I’m fine,” he says, moving to get up. “I’m just being stupid—”

 

“No, no, Bill,” Jack says sharply, one hand catching Billy’s shoulder and pushing him back down. “We’ve seen our fair share of shitty parents around here. You stay with me, kid, until Gene says the coast is clear. No reason to invite trouble.”

 

Billy wants to fight. He can already feel the horrible tension in his body shifting into nervous, furious energy, and it makes him want to hit something. But the only options available to him are Jack and Gene, and Gene’s already leaving, and Billy really doesn’t want to hit Jack. He likes the guy, and he appreciates he’s trying to help, as new as that instinct is, so he lets himself be pushed back onto the bench, hands curving into white-knuckled fists as he keeps them firmly planted on his lap.

 

“Good.” Jack nods. “I know it’s hard, but sometimes we gotta know when to swing and when to run, right, Bill?”

 

“... Right.” Billy looks down at his hands. He’s having trouble keeping his breathing even. His heart is racing, and his head is pounding, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to manage the whole talking thing for much longer.

 

“Shit,” he hears Jack mutter, and then, louder, “Billy, don’t take this the wrong way, alright?”

 

Before Billy can even begin to formulate a response, he’s surrounded by the warm smell of patchouli and human sweat as Jack is suddenly _ there.  _ Billy freezes up, his freakout coming to a screeching halt as he tries to understand what’s happening. Jack doesn’t seem to mind, though, turning his face into Billy neck as he squeezes him tightly around the shoulders.

 

It’s a hug. Jack’s hugging him.

 

Billy doesn’t really know what to do, but after a second, he decides he doesn’t mind. After ten seconds, he thinks maybe he likes it, and after fifteen seconds, he uncurls his fingers and tentatively reaches out, finding the soft cotton of Jack’s shirt and the bumps of his spine underneath.

 

“Hugs are good,” Jack says, shifting so he isn’t speaking directly into Billy’s jugular. “They don’t fix things, but they’re good reminders.”

 

“Reminders of what?” Billy asks, forehead pressed to Jack’s shoulder.

 

Jack chuckles, reaching up to ruffle Billy’s hair in a way that, six months ago, would have gotten him a sound beating.

 

“That people care about you,” he says. “Nothing like good old fashioned human contact to bring you back to reality.”

 

Billy would disagree, but he’s suddenly very tired and panicky and you know what? No one can see him. Jack’s tent isn’t for just anybody, after all.

 

He can indulge himself for a minute.

**Author's Note:**

> I am aware that you can't just boil snow and that there is a process. I am aware of a lot of things, now. However, for the sake of brevity, we're just gonna let that go with the warning of please, don't do that.
> 
> On the subject of research, did you know unprocessed sugar has no expiration date? And that, to preserve things like beets and eggs, people will stick them into piles of grain? And also inbreeding in chickens is something to worry about? And making snares is actually super easy? Life is grand.


End file.
